University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


j)all0cit  jFoote 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD. 

A  PICKED  COMPANY. 

THE  ROYAL  AMERICANS. 

A  TOUCH  OF  SUN  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

THE  DESERT  AND  THE  SOWN. 

THE  PRODIGAL.     Illustrated  by  the  Author. 

THE  CHOSEN  VALLEY. 

THE  LED-HORSE  CLAIM.     Illustrated. 

JOHN   BODEWIN'S  TESTIMONY. 

THE    LAST  ASSEMBLY    BALL,  and  THE  FATE 

OF  A  VOICE. 

IN   EXILE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
COEUR    D'ALENE.     A  Novel. 
THE     CUP     OF    TREMBLING,     AND    OTHER 

STORIES. 
THE    LITTLE    FIG-TREE    STORIES.    With  two 

illustrations  by  MRS.  FOOTB,  and  a  colored  Cover 

Design. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  VALLEY   ROAD 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

BY 

MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
fiiUcrsi&e  prestf  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,   1915,   BY  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  Septembe 


PREFACE 

THE  author  knows  that  her  readers  by  now  must 
be  chiefly  the  old  friends  who  read  her  books  when 
she  and  they  were  young.  To  those  few,  preoccupied 
as  they  are  with  their  individual  share  in  the  times 
we  have  lived  to  see,  it  would  be  easier  to  offer  a 
story  as  belated  as  this  if  it  could  be  mentioned  that 
the  work  on  it  was  done  before  the  war ;  it  has  seemed 
strange  enough  to  be  going  on  with  mere  mechani- 
cal revision  —  seated,  as  it  were,  with  one's  knitting 
at  the  spectacle  of  the  world's  agony  since  August  of 
last  year. 

GRASS  VALLEY,  CALIFORNIA 
July,  1915 


461723 


THE   VALLEY   ROAD 
PART  I 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

CHAPTER  I 

A  MAIL  had  arrived  in  camp  by  means  of  a  man  on 
horseback  who  yelled  from  across  the  river.  He  was 
not  kept  waiting  long.  A  boat  shot  out  from  the  oppo- 
site bluff  strongly  rowed  by  a  young  fellow,  bare- 
headed, in  his  shirt-sleeves,  hot  from  the  drawing- 
tent  whence  he  had  rushed  to  seize  the  ferryman's 
job.  Horses  and  whatever  pertained  to  the  road 
were  kept  on  the  other  side  —  where  there  was  no 
road,  but  a  few  hoof-  and  wagon-tracks,  when  travel 
was  brisk,  came  in  touch  eventually  with  a  stage- 
station  somewhere  in  the  desert.  This  was  a  locat- 
ing-camp. 

Scarth,  the  engineer  in  charge,  sat  on  the  side  of 
his  cot  smoking  and  smiling  to  himself :  he  was  read- 
ing a  four-sheet  letter  from  his  wife.  The  lines  ran 
swiftly  from  edge  to  edge  of  the  page — every  inch 
was  covered  in  her  small,  nervous,  precipitate  hand 
much  used  and  mal-used  in  this  kind  of  correspon- 
dence. She  was  giving  him  —  warm  —  her  descrip- 
tion of  the  christening  ceremonies  bestowed  on  their 
youngest,  the  infant  daughter  Scarth  had  never  seen. 
Caroline  was  a  brave  little  woman,  at  least  her  hus- 
band called  her  so ;  but  she  had  not  been  brave  enough 
to  "have"  her  baby  anywhere  near  his  present  field 

3 


:;.;Y:;  :    :  ;       THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

of  work.  Hence  these  thick  letters  from  her  in  the 
home  of  her  New  England  girlhood,  —  where  she 
abode  with  her  little  son  and  where  the  baby  had  come 
upon  the  scene,  —  to  him  in  his  grimy  tent,  with  the 
clean  nonsense  of  the  boys  for  society,  and,  for  christ- 
enings and  so  on,  the  silent  self-watch  of  proud  father- 
hood—  and  always  the  work  on  his  mind. 

His  field  was  a  place  of  such  geographical  privacy 
that  you  reached  it  by  three  hundred  miles  of  stage- 
line  and  the  wagon-tracks — at  the  same  time  he 
shared  the  un-privacy  of  a  camp  of  men,  where  your 
safe-box  is  a  portmanteau  which  has  been  in  the  river 
and  refuses  to  lock,  and  your  secretary  a  canvas  war- 
bag  that  locks  with  brass  eyelets  and  a  piece  of  rope. 
A  prudent  man  would  have  regularly  burned  those 
wifely  screeds,  which  spared  nothing  in  their  inti- 
macy, but  Scarth  was  a  better  "sport"  than  that:  if 
anything  should  happen  to  him,  he  knew  what  the 
boys  would  do  in  regard  to  private  letters.  But  he 
did  not  propose  that  anything  should  happen — or 
rather  he  never  thought  about  it.  He  expected  to  live 
and  see  the  kiddies  grow  up,  and  the  little  girl  some 
day  would  like  to  read  of  her  own  christening  in  her 
mother's  handwriting. 

But  a  rose — a  pale  pink,  withered  rose  — that  drops 
out  of  a  letter  which  has  spent  a  week  in  a  Western 
mail-bag ! — what  is  a  man  in  camp  to  do  with  a  thing 
like  that?  Scarth  looked  at  it  and  smiled  and  laid  it 
down  gingerly  on  the  cot  beside  him ;  and  presently 
he  read  that  the  rose  when  fresh  had  come  from  the 
wreath  around  the  christening-bowl,  the  same  having 

4 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

been  more  festively  in  evidence  at  his  and  Caroline's 
wedding  in  its  normal  use  as  the  old  Baxter  punch- 
bowl. 

A  whirl-blast  dervished  up  the  canon,  entered  the 
tent  without  ceremony,  left  considerable  dust  and 
departed  with  the  rose.  But  its  mission,  as  such  things 
go,  was  finished  in  that  ghost  of  fragrance  lingering 
in  the  paper  with  its  subtle  power  of  quickening  latent 
memories.  There  were  roses  in  the  borders  and  roses 
all  over  the  Baxter  house,  five — six  summers  ago, 
and  the  bed-linen  and  bureau-drawers  smelled  of  rose- 
leaves  dried,  when  he  courted  his  wife  there  soberly 
in  the  sight  of  her  people  downstairs,  and  went  up- 
stairs to  dream  of  her  alone.  .  .  .  Well;  this  christen- 
ing was  a  May  christening,  after  the  usual  storm  which 
"shakes  the  darling  buds"  of  New  England's  May. 
He  remembered  how  at  this  season  the  furnace  would 
be  shut  down  punctually  and  sweet-smelling  fires  of 
apple-tree  trimmings  lighted  in  the  parlor  grates.  It 
was  one  of  those  1836  houses,  with  matched  parlors 
which  might  have  been  named  "  Purity  "  and  "  Peace," 
and  of  course  it  was  a  house  immaculate.  You  looked 
from  room  to  room  when  the  doors  were  apart  —  they 
were  as  like  as  two  sisters,  the  front  parlor  a  little 
more  dignified,  the  back  one  a  trifle  cozier,  with  a 
modern  piano  in  place  of  the  great  sofa  in  the  front 
room  and  not  so  many  or  so  formal  tables  of  shining 
mahogany  veneered.  And  as  the  mind  of  one  sister 
often  repeats  with  a  slight  difference  the  impressions 
of  another,  the  tall,  twin  mirrors  at  the  top  of  each 
room  endlessly  duplicated  and  confused  each  other's 

5 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

reflections  upon  whatever  passed  within  their  lim- 
ited range  of  vision.  The  mirrors  would  have  been 
crowded  that  day,  when  the  guests  were  assembling 
and  the  christening-party  passed  up  the  handsome 
old  rooms  to  the  place  of  family  solemnities.  Old  Dr. 
Wilson,  who  was  with  them  in  all  their  vital  events, 
never  had  to  be  told  where  to  take  his  stand. 

Caroline  wrote  of  the  cherry  trees,  white  with  blos- 
soms, that  looked  in  through  the  large,  clear-paned 
windows,  fairly  shedding  light  on  the  occasion,  and 
how  the  robins  kept  up  their  shouting  all  through 
the  hush  before  the  minister's  words.  The  whole 
communion  of  saints  was  there  —  the  Baxter  saints, 
as  Caroline  called  the  elders  of  her  family  —  gathered 
to  witness  one  more  Baxter  baby  started  on  the  same 
good  old  positive  way.  Scarth  had  seen  enough  of 
life  in  other  places  to  know  the  value  of  a  little  nar- 
rowness when  the  "  greater  love "  and  a  great  sin- 
cerity and  faithfulness  went  therewith.  He  prized  it 
all  —  he  dwelt  on  the  scene,  in  his  wife's  words,  with 
tender,  humorous  appreciation.  The  great-aunts  in 
their  best  silks  and  shoulder- wraps  seated  in  draftless 
corners,  the  young  cousins  smiling  around  in  smart 
spring  costumes ;  the  little  bud,  whose  party  it  was, 
borne  proudly  up  the  room  in  a  drift  of  snowy  long- 
clothes  and  the  sweetest  of  shawls  hooded  about  her 
silky  head ;  Caroline  and  little  son  in  summer  white 
—  son  in  short  socks  for  the  first  time  that  spring  (no 
sparing  of  detail  here)  and  his  fair  curls  cropped  be- 
low his  ears,  going  from  one  to  another  of  the  relatives 
dutifully  putting  out  a  shy,  brown  hand. 

6 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Caroline's  parents  had  both  died  young  leaving  her 
without  brother  or  sister.  As  to  advice,  she  had  been 
adopted  by  practically  all  the  aunts  and  great-aunts, 
but  her  home  had  been  always  with  Uncle  Benjamin 
Baxter,  a  widower,  and  in  that  house  her  natural  ad- 
viser would  have  been  Cousin  Olivia — who  never 
gave  advice.  When  the  expected  baby  proved  to  be 
a  girl,  family  opinion  decided  that  she  ought  to  be 
another  Olivia  Baxter  —  Cousin  Olivia  saying  noth- 
ing. Caroline  —  taking  a  deep  breath  for  what  she 
knew  must  come  —  announced  that  the  name  would 
be  Engracia :  she  said  it  conclusively,  and  though  not 
quite  strong  as  yet  physically,  her  Baxter  will  was  in 
no  degree  impaired.  A  stupefied  silence  followed. 
As  no  one  was  prepared  with  a  good  argument,  the 
poor  ones  came  first 

i    "  You  have  named  one  child  for  the  Scarths  already, 
my  dear:  —  why  go  back  to  that  Spanish  woman?" 

Caroline  dealt  once  more  with  this  persistent  fal- 
lacy respecting  her  husband's  mother's  extraction. 
"She  wasn't  Spanish!  Judge  Ludwell's  daughter 
Engracia  was  no  more  Spanish  than  we  are." 

"  Then,  if  you  want  to  name  the  baby  for  her,  why 
not  call  her  *  Grace,'  and  have  done  with  it?  How  do 
you  pronounce  *  Engracia'  ?" 

"I  don't  pronounce  it;  but  I  like  it  —  mis-pro- 
nounced —  better  than  Grace  proper,  so  to  speak." 

"  But  how  did  it  come  into  the  family  if  there  is  no 
Spanish  blood?" 

"  Because  "  —  Caroline  had  told  this  several  times 
before,  but  no  one  remembers  the  complications  of 

7 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

another  family's  past — "Judge  Ludwell  made  his 
first  trip  to  California — long  before  he  went  there  to 
stay  —  when  everything  was  Spanish.  He  did  n't 
marry  a  Spanish  woman  —  he  was  married  already 
— but  he  liked  their  names.  He  came  home  and  named 
his  baby  daughter,  just  born,  *  Engracia.'  Years  after, 
when  she  was  grown,  he  went  back  —  about  the  time 
of  the  gold-rush ;  and  Hal's  father  took  a  holiday  and 
went  out  there  and  married  her — but  it  was  no  holi- 
day to  get  her!  That  is  the  beginning  of  Engracia 
in  the  Scarth  family.  .  .  .  Hal  wrote  me  to  do  just 
as  I  pleased,  but  if  I  wanted  to  please  him,  the  baby's 
name,  if  it  should  be  a  girl  ..."  So  the  matter  was 
settled,  and  the  family — not  being  unused  to  little 
defeats  in  a  good  cause  —  accepted  the  superfluous 
vowels ;  and  certainly  the  Name  did  not  spoil  the 
Day. 

The  woman  whose  memory  it  honored  had  blue, 
dark-lashed  eyes,  as  you  see  in  her  miniature  by 
Stuart  Newton,  one  of  the  few  he  is  known  to  have 
done,  painted  in  England  and  perhaps  a  labor  of 
friendship.  Henry  Scarth  went  over  there  as  Secre- 
tary of  Legation,  a  post  he  could  hardly  afford,  but 
he  and  his  young  wife  made  a  great  personal  success, 
as  in  her  case  this  miniature  might  witness.  The  fore- 
head is  extremely  clever — not  large  but  packed.  The 
stiff  curls  of  the  period  shade  it  and  droop  against  a 
cheek  of  purest  oval.  The  nose  is  delicate,  aquiline, 
joined  to  the  broad  brows  with  a  deep  depression. 
The  eyes  are  far  apart  and  the  mouth,  with  its  short 
upper  lip  and  exquisite  corners,  would  be  a  valuable 

S 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

possession  in  any  family; — there  could  not  be  a 
sweeter  woman's  mouth  than  Engracia  Ludwell 
Scarth's —  who  joined  her  good  pride  of  Southern 
birth  to  one  of  Northern,  equally  good,  and  softened 
both  prides  with  love,  and  deepened  the  love  by  trials 
in  the  flesh,  and  lifted  it,  through  self-denial,  almost 
within  reach  of  certain  ideals  that  governed  both 
pride  and  love  with  her.  They  were  lost  at  sea  going 
around  the  Horn  in  response  to  that  invitation  so 
long  waited  for  —  to  them  both  —  from  the  old  Judge 
when  his  heart  began  to  soften,  too  late.  So  there 
were  no  grandparents  on  either  side,  for  these  young 
Scarths. 

Caroline  had  read  and  admired  (what  time  she  was 
looking  for  evidences  of  talent  on  "  Hal's  side  "  that 
she  might  of  it  boast  to  her  own)  the  book  his  father 
wrote  when  a  young  man  fresh  from  taking  his  degree 
at  Harvard ;  it  is  long  since  out  of  print.  It  was  he  who 
crossed  the  plains  on  horseback,  as  we  have  heard, 
early  in  the  fifties  and  wrote  engagingly  of  his  jour^ 
ney  and  of  the  excited  little  city  of  the  sand-hills,  just 
beginning  then  to  send  for  its  wives  and  sisters,  and 
there  would  have  been  a  few  grown-up  daughters ; 
Judge  Ludwell  had  one,  this  exquisite  Engracia,  but 
of  course  he  could  n't  expect  to  keep  her  in  that  rout 
of  suitors.  What  apparently  hurt  him  most  was,  that 
among  them  all  she  chose  the  young  Bostonian  and 
went  back  with  him  to  his  frigid  East  just  as  the  West 
was  unfolding  glorious  banners  of  prosperity. 

A  deeper,  unconfessed  offense,  it  was  said,  lay  in  the 
traveler's  point  of  view,  revealed  with  the  artlessness  of 

9 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

young  authorship  in  his  book  issued  about  the  time 
of  his  wooing.  The  Judge  was  a  Southerner,  and  you 
could  not  speak  of  San  Francisco  in  those  days  and 
leave  out  the  ruling  social  element,  or  that  which 
claimed  to  rule —  much  the  most  picturesque  "  ma- 
terial "  in  the  new  city ;  but  it  certainly  did  keep  alive 
a  sense  of  personal  responsibility  which  called  peace- 
ful citizens  out  on  the  dueling-ground  and  sometimes 
dispensed  with  even  that  formality,  and  other  habits, 
strictly  "  among  gentlemen,"  which  may  not  have  ap- 
pealed to  the  young  New  Englander  except  on  his 
literary  and  perhaps  sarcastic  side.  There  was  in  fact 
scarcely  anything  the  North  or  South  could  say  of  each 
other,  in  those  days,  which  failed  to  irritate. 

Outwardly,  the  Judge  became  reconciled  to  his  son- 
in-law,  but  never  to  his  literary  ambitions  or  to  his 
Northern  birth.  He  was  now  a  man  of  wealth,  and 
rich  men  are  easily  jealous  of  the  great  stuff  in  their 
possession :  it  hurts  them  to  give  it  away  to  those  who 
pretend  to  hold  it  negligible,  or  show  no  aptitude 
for  either  making  or  keeping  it.  Why  waste  money 
on  that  writing-chap?  Engracia  Scarth  asked  no 
favors  naturally  and  was  as  haughty-minded  as  her 
husband.  And  so  there  was  little  to  leave  this  grand- 
child, besides  the  dark-lashed  eyes  and  the  long- 
voweled  Spanish  name,  which,  the  aunts  said,  did  not 
"  go  well "  with  Scarth.  It  went  well  with  it  in  mar- 
riage, however ;  for  in  spite  of  ups  and  downs  and  a 
trying  unworldliness  about  money,  these  two  left  be- 
hind them  the  memory  of  great  happiness  together. 
With  the  money  safe  in  the  male  line  and  the  old 

10 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Judge  long  in  his  grave,  it  could  have  been  only  some 
sentiment  connected  with  his  memory  (a  kindly  and 
a  generous  one  when  all  is  said)  which  led  the  dis- 
inherited Scarths  to  call  their  first-born  after  him, 
Thomas  Ludwell  —  the  only  living  Thomas  Ludwell 
being  Cousin  Tom,  capitalist,  of  San  Francisco,  quite 
a  stranger  to  the  Eastern  branch  and  unaware  of  a 
little  kinsman  who  had  stepped  into  his  name  be- 
fore he  had  a  son  of  his  own  to  bear  it. 

The  Judge  in  his  will  passed  over  his  own  son  — 
a  disappointing  life,  with  rather  too  much  of  the 
"ruling  element"  in  it  —  and  left  the  bulk  of  his  for- 
tune to  his  son's  son,  named  for  him,  first  cousin  to 
Henry  Scarth  on  his  discredited  mother's  side.  It 
gave  the  young  man  an  early  start  in  life  and  a  seat 
at  the  great  game  of  finance  on  the  West  Coast; 
though  there  were  some  bad  losers  who  called  it  by 
a  ruder  name.  But  the  old  Judge  would  have  been 
pleased  if  he  could  have  lived  to  see  results  so  far 
beyond  the  wildest  dreams  of  his  own  time,  when 
dreamers,  as  we  know,  did  not  stint  themselves. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  Ludwells  and  the  Scarths  went  their  separate 
ways  for  a  number  of  years,  with  the  continent  be- 
tween them.  Henry  Scarth's  wedding-cards  when  he 
married  Caroline  Baxter  were  duly  sent  to  Thomas 
Ludwell  and  wife,  and  Anna  the  wife  asked  who  they 
were  and  was  told,  and  forgot  all  about  them.  The 
baby  Engracia  was  four,  perhaps,  and  little  Tom  nine, 
when  the  Marysville  stage  set  them  all  down  one  mid- 
summer day,  with  large  luggage  around  them,  under 
an  enormous  California  live-oak  that  roofed  the  road 
and  shaded  the  front  of  a  long,  double-verandahed 
house  planted  opposite,  without  fence  or  any  other 
preliminaries  between.  And  while  Scarth  "  settled  " 
with  'Gene  Thompson,  driver,  and  the  stage-team 
drank  from  the  horse-trough  platformed  against  the 
oak,  Caroline,  with  her  offspring  around  her,  stood 
and  took  a  first  shrinking  look  at  her  new  home. 

Little  Tom,  whose  latest  ideas  of  home  included 
Uncle  Benjamin's  gateposts  and  big  front  lawn, 
announced,  not  without  satisfaction  in  the  change, 
"Why,  it's  right  on  the  road!" — and  undoubtedly 
it  was. 

That  evening,  when  a  strong  pink  and  sallow  after- 
glow pierced  the  rifted  chambers  of  the  oak,  and 
turned  the  dust-wake  of  a  passing  team  to  pastel- 
colored  haze,  Caroline,  seated  by  her  man  on  their  own 

12 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

front  steps  at  last,  with  the  children  asleep  upstairs 
in  their  own  bedrooms  (small  and  queer  and  stuffy), 
regretting-  nothing  and  happy  as  a  girl,  began  at 
once  with  the  question  closest  that  moment  to  her 
heart:  — 

"  How  long  do  you  think  we  shall  stay  ?  " 

"The  Lord  knows,  girl  I" 

"  Does  n't  the  company  know?" 

"  The  company  says  it 's  up  to  me.  The  '  company ' 
is  chiefly  Schuyler  Rivington." 

"  And  what  are  you  most  afraid  of  ?  Schuyler  Riv- 
ington?" 

"  Him  least  of  all  —  you  can  talk  to  him  !  But  there 
is  always  the  ignorance  of  those  you  can't  talk  to,  and 
ignorance  means  impatience  —  quite  justifiable.  Land 
schemes  are  slow,  and  we  all  judge  things  half  done 
unless  they  happen  to  be  things  we  have  done  our- 
selves." 

She  sighed.  "  When  I  look  about  this  queer  old 
place  —  only  half  look — I  just  go  wild  with  its  pos- 
sibilities!" 

"  I  expect  it  will  be  the  same  outside." 

"Then  let's  be  wild!  Let's  do  something  while 
we  are  here." 

"We'll  abolish  the  kitchen-porch,"  said  Scarth 
indulgently.  "The  company  at  least  can  afford  to 
keep  us  from  typhoid.  And  we'll  plough  up  that 
chicken-compound  which  I  suppose  you  have  got 
your  eye  on  for  a  garden  — 

"  Hal ! "  she  cried,  "  what  a  nice  boy  you  are  to  go 
West  with !  By  the  way,  what  was  this  place  called  ? 

13 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Did  n't  you  say  it  was  an  old  road-house  in  the 
fifties  ?" 

"  Very  much  so !  Its  name  was  '  Pete  Smith's ' 
and  it 's  '  Pete  Smith's '  still.  You  '11  find  it  scrawled 
on  all  your  parcels  from  Torres ville." 

Caroline  laughed.  "  That 's  realism  !  But  it  is  n't 
going  to  stay  '  Pete  Smith's.'  What  do  you  think  of 
*  Roadside '  for  a  name  ?  —  Did  you  hear  what  Tom 
said?  That  child  gets  right  down  to  the  facts;  he 
always  sees  the  main  point  first." 

She  was  young,  and  she  cared  about  names  and  a 
great  many  other  trifles,  when  Scarth  first  took  the 
management  of  the  Torres  Tract  and  shut  up  the  best 
"bar"  on  the  road.  Torres  ville  had  reason  to  thank 
him  ;  but  the  native  must  have  his  little  joke  at  new- 
comers who  arrive  after  the  real  work  of  pioneering 
is  over,  and  set  up  confident  standards  of  their  own, 
and  look  about  them  in  the  spirit  of  that  well-known 
condescension  in  Easterners. 

"Say,  Bill,"  one  old  rancher  informed  another  as 
two  teams  stopped  to  water  at  the  public  trough  be- 
neath the  oak,  "this  ain't  goin'  to  be  *  Pete's'  any 
more  now  the  new  folks  has  come.  This  here 's  '  Road- 
side,' and  don't  you  forgit  it." 

"  That  so  ?  Well,  where  '11  ye  git  a  place  round 
here  that  ain't  '  roadside'  ?" 

And  indeed  this  part  of  California  is  not  a  country 
of  private  parks  and  long  carriage-approaches. 

Scarth  found  the  old  road-house  central  for  his 
duties  which  took  him  all  over  the  big,  puzzling 
domain,  studying  its  possibilities  and  piecing  out  its 

14 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

revenues  in  the  day  of  small  things.  Caroline  went 
with  him,  through  the  long  waiting  weeks  of  the  end- 
less California  autumn  which  lingers  until  Christmas, 
dropping  a  little  snow  on  late  rosebuds  as  you  go  up 
into  the  foothills.  They  rode  the  horses  of  the  country, 
or  they  took  a  child  between  them  in  the  box-buggy, 
a  lunch,  and  a  novel  for  mamma,  stowed  beneath 
the  seat:  —  climbing  long  hills  toward  the  placer- 
country  and  picnicking  on  the  edges  of  deep,  silent, 
dusty  woods.  They  looked  down  into  dry  gulches, 
deserted,  once  swarming  with  men.  When  he  told 
her  the  names  of  the  dead  little  mining-towns  they 
rode  through,  she  laughed — because  Bret  Harte, 
whom  she  was  re-reading,  has  located  "  You  Bet " 
and  "  Red  Dog  "  immortally  in  another  county.  They 
argued  the  point  —  he  meticulous  as  to  maps,  she 
sticking  to  her  essential  truths  of  fiction. 

But  as  to  their  own  Marysville  road  and  Marysville 
stage, — 'Gene  Thompson  was  not,  of  course,  Yuba 
Bill,  neither  were  they  "Pete  Smiths," — but  there 
was  no  doubt  about  the  road  and  the  old,  two-seated 
jerky.  Jack  Hamlin  might  have  assisted  pretty  Mrs. 
Brown  in  her  green  veil  up  the  steps  of  their  own 
piazza,  while  Colonel  Starbottle,  widowed  of  his  gal- 
lant opportunity,  headed  gloomily  the  male  contin- 
gent, making  as  one  throat  for  the  bar. 

"Are  your  glasses  charged,  gentlemen  ?  "  — sadly 
the  Colonel's  ghost  would  be  cheated  in  these  days ! 

She  may  have  feared  a  little  for  her  children,  if  this 
were  to  be  their  permanent  home.  But  nothing  is 
permanent  in  the  lives  of  engineers.  It  made  things 

15 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

beautifully  simple  for  her.  Caroline  was  not  too  fond 
of  the  kind  and  talkative  East  —  when  there;  though 
she  swore  by  it  and  saw  nothing,  and  nobody,  half  so 
good,  wherever  else  she  went.  She  had  a  social  con- 
science all  too  easily  lulled  into  dangerous  repose ;  a 
lonely  child,  she  had  grown  up  a  dreamy  girl  in  a 
house  full  of  books  and  of  time  to  read  them.  Cousin 
Olivia  had  never  tried  to  give  her  "good  habits." 
She  was  unworldly  because  to  her  the  world  was  a 
small,  selected  circle  she  had  parted  from  three  thou- 
sand miles  away,  and  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  make 
a  new  one.  Having  few  books,  meantime,  and  no 
one  of  her  own  age  all  day  to  talk  to,  she  chewed  the 
cud  of  memory:  she  was  steeped  in  quotations  — 
frequently  incorrect  —  rags  and  tags  of  poetry  ;  every- 
thing she  saw  reminded  her  of  something  else,  espe- 
cially something  haunting  she  had  read.  After  a 
while  a  daughter  grew  up  who  could  understand 
(and  had  a  better  verbal  memory  for  old  quotes),  and 
a  son  was  growing  up  who  could  understand  his 
father's  outdoor  dreams  as  well. 

It  was  the  following  April  when  Caroline,  lying 
awake  listening  to  the  birds  at  sunrise,  thought  out  a 
new  staircase  to  go  up  from  her  husband's  office  where 
the  old  mahogany  bar  came  away,  leaving  marred 
woodwork  and  stains  on  the  floor.  By  another  spring 
it  had  gone  up,  precisely  as  she  planned,  with  one 
turn  and  a  ravishing  glimpse,  through  a  little  high 
window  to  light  the  landing,  straight  into  the  green- 
and-gold  chambers  of  the  oak.  Often,  passing  up  and 
down,  absorbed  in  some  commonplace  housekeeping 

16 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

reverie,  her  absent  eyes  would  encounter  two  other 
pairs  of  eyes  in  the  faces  of  her  children,  startling  her 
in  their  sweetness  against  a  loophole  of  blue  sky.  It 
was  like  breaking  into  heaven  unawares,  while  you 
are  thinking  of  the  toughness  of  valley  beef. 

As  for  the  old  staircase  (it  was  merely  stairs)  that 
choked  an  ugly  passage  between  former  barroom  and 
former  "  Ladies'  Parlor,"  they  abolished  it  and  took 
passage  into  parlor,  making  a  charming,  long  sitting- 
room,  with  a  boxed  beam  across  the  ceiling  where 
the  old  partition  came  away,  and  French  windows 
opening  on  —  what  would  be  the  garden  —  now,  un- 
speakable !  But  in  front !  —  Listen  to  this,  Cousin 
Olivia  of  the  roses :  a  hedge  of  oleander  trees  —  not 
bushes  —  taller  than  your  head,  meeting  the  veranda- 
railing  at  each  end,  and  behind  the  screen  they  made 
on  one  side,  the  remains  of  an  old  apple  orchard. 
The  trees  were  stooping,  crooked,  unkempt, — the 
oleanders  were  ragged  and  dusty ;  but,  wait  a  year 
or  two !  —  grass,  cool  and  short,  with  shadows  of 
the  low  trees  upon  it,  bright  garden-beds  beyond, 
a  long  brick  walk  on  the  north  side  in  front  of  the 
sitting-room  windows  —  Heaven,  we  are  told,  lies 
about  us  in  our  infancy,  and  heaven  knows  it  is  not 
our  dreams  and  the  foolishness  they  lead  to  we  wish 
to  forget  when  we  are  old,  but  the  mornings  when 
we  woke  to  the  cock-crow  of  reality,  and  saw  life  in 
its  baldness  and  its  risks  with  a  heart  full  of  fear,  and 
spake  hard  truths,  not  truth,  to  those  we  loved,  and 
quenched  their  dreams  and  parted  with  our  own  in 
the  name  of  this  world's  prudence. 

17 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Another  year,  they  opened  an  outlook  to  the  west 
through  trees  which  made  their  upper  rooms  dark 
in  winter ;  and  "  lo,  the  valley  hollow"  — the  Sacra- 
mento Valley,  not  "  lamp-bestarred,"  for  it  is  a  mon- 
strous, empty  valley  below  little  "  Roadside "  and 
the  other  little  roadsides  with  their  far-scattered 
lights.  The  only  signals  at  night  are  the  great  stars, 
the  only  boundary  by  day,  in  this  direction,  is  the 
blue,  pure  line  of  the  Coast  Range  one  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  away. 


CHAPTER  III 

"  IT  strikes  me  they  do  you  rather  well,  your  com- 
pany." Cousin  Tom  looked  about  him,  gratified  if 
somewhat  surprised  at  the  changes.  He  remembered 
"Pete  Smith's"  when  it  served  the  public  on  that 
road.  He  and  his  charming  wife  were  up  on  their 
first,  experimental,  visit  to  his  Eastern  relatives :  he 
had  not  pressed  himself  —  this  was  the  Scarths'  third 
year  on  the  Torres  Tract. 

Scarth  said  nothing,  but  Caroline  gayly  took  up 
the  word  :  "  Company  not  at  all,  Cousin  Tom !  This 
is  our  own  private  extravagance.  The  company 
bought  the  house  and  handed  it  over  to  us  —  and  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  it !  " 

Anna  Ludwell  laughed,  but  Cousin  Tom  looked 
rather  blank.  His  impression  was,  and  perfectly  cor- 
rect, that  Hal  Scarth's  salary  left  little  margin  for 
this  sort  of  thing  and  would  not  be  largely  increased 
unless  he  could  make  a  paying  proposition  out  of 
the  old  grant. 

"  You  don't  know,  I  suppose,  how  long  you  are 
likely  to  be  here  ?  "  he  asked  his  cousin  significantly. 

Scarth  was  the  younger,  but  by  nature  unfitted  to 
take  a  suggestion  of  this  sort  from  a  relative  and  a 
wealthier  man. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered  lightly. 

But  Caroline  made  haste  to  justify — "This  is  the 

19 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

place  our  children  will  remember  as  home :  we  are 
pretty  sure  to  stay  as  long  as  that."  To  Anna  Lud- 
well,  sure  of  sympathy,  she  added,  "  There  was  n't  a 
closet  in  the  house,  and  you  could  n't  breathe  in  the 
same  room  with  those  old  wall-papers." 

"  I  should  think  you  would  get  tired  if  your  di- 
rectors don't,"  the  men's  dialogue  continued. 

"  I  shall  not  get  tired,"  said  Caroline's  engineer. 

"  Then  you  must  like  to  work  for  nothing,"  said 
Anna's  capitalist. 

The  women  smiled  at  each  other  in  mutual  reas- 
surance, doubting  how  far  these  cousin-husbands 
would  go. 

"  I  don't  work  for  nothing,"  said  Scarth,  "  but  I 
expect  to  wait  awhile  for  my  pay." 

He  rose,  and  they  all  went  out  to  look  at  a  rich 
spring  sunset  that  suddenly  irradiated  the  room.  It 
was  the  morning  room  upstairs  where  two  windows 
had  been  joined  by  breaking  out  a  third  between 
that  came  down  to  the  floor.  They  stepped  outside 
on  a  balcony  open  to  the  sky. 

"  That 's  a  pretty  foreground."  Cousin  Tom  con- 
sidered favorably  the  effect  of  the  dim  little  farms 
overpowered  by  that  mounting  splendor.  Here  a 
hill-orchard  turned  its  late  blossoms  to  the  flame,  or 
a  spire  of  poplars  leaped  into  glory,  or  a  wave  of 
pale  young  wheat  streaked  the  heather-colored  dusk 
with  silver. 

"  All  very  pretty  as  it  lies  there  —  " 

"  Very  practical,"  said  Scarth.  "  That 's  where  our 
infant  revenues  come  from ;  but  watch  and  you  '11 

20 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

see  us  grow.  We  shall  climb  out  of  the  valley  in  a 
few  years  and  take  in  the  lower  foothills :  it 's  bound 
to  be  a  great  fruit  country,  this  —  Oregon  can't  show 
any  better  apples  than  Penn  Valley  and  Pet  Hill." 

"  *  Pet  Hill ! '  "  Caroline  echoed  ;  she  wished  the 
others  not  to  miss  her  joy  in  California's  early  no- 
menclature :  but  they  were  only  politely  amused  — 
it  was  not  so  new  to  them. 

"  I  can  perfectly  see  why  you  love  it  here,"  said 
Anna  Ludwell  cordially  —  she  could  n't  of  course  : 
a  very  finished  little  worldling  with  a  heart  of  gold ; 
but  that  did  not  rob  her  of  the  pleasure  of  saying  so 
to  a  woman  she  wholly  pitied  and  had  begun  to  like. 

Caroline's  face  lighted  up ;  she  answered  in  good 
faith :  "It  is  an  ideal  life  for  the  children." 

"  —  While  they  are  children,"  Anna  permitted  her- 
self to  add. 

"  Hal  is  rather  cut  off  from  men  of  his  own  class 

—  though  we  rather  avoid  the  word." 

"  Don't  you  think  we  have  classes,  then  ?  " 
"  Oh,  certainly ;  but  it  does  n't  matter  what  we 
think :  he  has  to  get  at  these  people  here ;  he  has  to 
work  with  them,  somehow.  It  would  n't  do  to  begin 
by  setting  up  to  be  different  —  and  he  does  n't  feel 
different.  In  his  work  "earth"  has  always  meant 
something  to  be  moved,  to  be  got  rid  of,  or  to  use  in 
some  other  shape.  Here  it  means  people,  and  people 
he  must  have.  He  lives  in  his  farmers !  They  are  a  te- 
dious lot,  but  he  strangely  likes  the  poor  fellows.  He 
tolled  them  in  here  —  he  fasted  and  prayed  for  them 

—  he  sorted  them  out  with  sobs  and  tears,  —  and 

21 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

there  were  none  of  the  'largest  size'  — "  she  ran  on 
gayly  behind  her  husband's  unconscious  back. 
"  Their  little  ranches  he  has  just  about  created  with 
his  faith  and  frantic  inducements  and  their  hard  work 
and  the  company's  wasted  water ;  it  all  depends  on 
their  patience  and  some  things  he  hopes  to  beat  into 
their  heads  (of  'solid  ivory'!)  before  he's  done  with 
them  —  what  he  will  be  able  to  do  :  I  mean  his  dream 
for  the  future  of  the  grant  —  "  she  stopped  abruptly, 
finding  herself  on  too  intimate  ground. 

Anna  listened,  wondering  if  a  husband  can  be 
altogether  delighted  to  have  his  business  (a  sacred 
word  with  her  husband)  made  the  theme  of  his  wife's 
raillery,  even  quite  in  the  family.  Self-contained  and 
somewhat  literal  persons  have  time  for  such  reflec- 
tions while  the  nervous  speakers  are  cracking  on 
before  any  chance  breeze  of  sympathy.  The  breeze 
dropped  a  little  :  Caroline  became  aware  of  a  slight 
halt  in  the  attention  of  her  listener.  Anna  had  lent 
half  an  ear  to  the  men's  conversation.  She  was  sure 
that  her  husband  had  inside  knowledge,  acquainted 
as  he  must  be  with  the  history  of  the  grant,  by  which 
to  gauge  his  cousin's  chances  of  success.  It  was 
painful  to  her  kind  heart  to  hear  them  tilting  at  each 
other  with  all  the  advantage  on  the  stronger  side. 

The  men  were  enjoying  themselves,  after  the 
marry-come-up  style  that  obtained  in  their  boyhood. 
They  had  shared  a  few  terms  in  preparatory  schools 
before  Tom  Ludwell  entered  Yale :  his  mother  —  his 
father  was  a  cipher  —  believed  in  Eastern  training 
for  her  son  of  the  Golden  West.  Since  that  time  they 

22 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

had  never  met,  but  almost  at  sight  the  old  relations 
and  almost  the  same  points  at  issue  were  resumed. 

The  Torres  Tract  had  a  history  which  has  been 
told  in  several  different  ways :  without  being  subtle, 
we  may  call  it  an  unholy  grab.  Such  land  grabs 
were  common  as  every  one  knows,  and  legal  in  the 
time  of  them.  It  included  water  rights,  ditches  and 
defunct  placer  mines,  and  now  farmers  as  a  last 
resort. 

A  company  of  Eastern  capitalists  had  bought  it  for 
the  value  of  its  mines.  If  the  Californians  who  sold  it 
knew,  they  neglected  to  mention  that  a  certain  long- 
fought  battle  in  the  courts  had  been  won  by  the  farm- 
ers, which  would  shut  those  placers  down  till  omelets 
are  made  without  breaking  eggs ;  till  you  can  tear  out 
the  breast  of  a  mountain  and  flail  it  down  fine  with 
iron  streams  of  water  and  send  those  streams  away 
cleansed  of  the  deed,  with  no  burden  of  sand  to  dump 
upon  the  farmers'  crops  or  add  to  the  bed  of  the  puz- 
zled Sacramento.  The  farmers'  word  was  now  the 
miners'  law,  and  everyone  who  owned  a  placer  mine 
was  trying  to  unload. 

They  had  their  bad  bargain  on  their  hands  and 
they  sent  out  a  man  in  the  strength  of  his  forty 
years  (when  a  man  expects  trouble)  to  see  what 
could  be  made  of  it.  Scarth  must  have  known  that 
he  would  be  side-tracked  on  the  road  to  professional 
reputation  —  he  probably  did  not  worry  about  that. 
Reputations  take  care  of  themselves:  his  had  pro- 
cured him  this  work  which  called  for  an  honest  man ; 
after  that,  for  one  with  "nerve,  patience,  initiative, 

23 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

and  a  varied  practical  training  to  draw  upon "  — 
thus  the  offer  had  been  flatteringly  worded.  There 
was  nothing  flattering  about  the  salary.  But  what  he 
and  Caroline  wanted  was  a  home,  founded  on  a  job 
which  might  be  likened  to  a  serial  rather  than  a 
short  story  as  with  most  of  their  home  propositions 
heretofore. 

They  came  out,  wild  as  their  own  children  with 
the  ancient  joy  in  the  beginnings  of  things.  It  is  not 
every  day  a  man  is  given  a  free  hand  and  sixty 
thousand  acres  of  land  and  told  to  go  make  a  coun- 
try 1  Very  little  money  all  this  while  :  the  man  must 
find  his  own  way  out  of  his  troubles.  Now,  let  rich 
cousins  with  their  fatted  securities  ask  wearily,  "  Do 
you  like  to  work  for  nothing?" 

Scarth  vaunted  to  his  wife  in  their  bedroom  that 
night,  "  Good  Lord  !  before  I  'd  be  Tom  !  He's  only 
four  years  older  than  I  am  and  he  Js  got  it  all :  he  's 
done.  He  couldn't  make  himself  poor  if  he  tried, 
and  he  'd  sooner  die  than  be  poor.  How  much  of  the 
man  is  left  after  that ! " 

"  Of  the  boy,  perhaps,"  said  Caroline,  who  felt  a 
weakness  for  these  Ludwells  creeping  over  her.  "  I 
think  Anna  likes  him  pretty  well  if  he  is  rich.  Most 
of  their  friends  are  in  the  same  parlous  state.  It 
gives  them  what  they  want  for  Clare." 

"And  by  and  by  there  will  be  something  she 
wants  they  can't  give  her :  they  are  n't  necessarily 
making  life  easy  for  Clare,  if  there  is  anything  in 
her." 

"  Well,  I  should  n't  worry  about  Clare.  Of  course 

24 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

they  will  have  their  regrets  and  they  won't  be  the 
same  as  ours ;  but  I  would  n't  brag  "  —  she  backed 
up  to  him  to  be  set  free  where  a  hook  had  caught  in 
her  lace  yoke  behind  —  "  I  would  n't  brag  about  my 
abstemiousness  as  a  father.  You  could  n't  be  trusted 
one  moment  with  Cousin  Tom's  income  if  Engracia 
were  ten  years  older.  You  would  buy  her  a  pearl 
necklace  the  first  thing." 

"I'd  buy  one  for  you  — and  you'd  'exchange' 
it  for  something  for  Engracia." 

That  Cousin  Tom  became  his  birthright  as  Head 
of  the  Family  goes  entirely  without  saying.  He 
used  capitals  as  his  grandfather  had  before  him,  and 
thought  the  old  Judge  did  excellent  well  to  spell 
Property  with  another  capital,  and  to  leave  his  un- 
mutilated  to  carry  on  the  name.  But  gentlemen  of 
that  fine  old  feudal  type  looked  after  the  junior 
branches  and  the  female  line.  When  he  learned  from 
his  wife  that  the  Scarths  had  come  to  the  question 
of  a  school  for  young  Tom,  he  asked,  "What  are 
they  going  to  make  of  him?  " 

"Oh,  he's  made,"  Anna  replied:  "he's  cut  out 
for  his  father's  profession.  They  don't  expect  to 
give  him  a  university  degree,  but  they  want  him  to 
have  the  same  preparation — some  good  classical 
school." 

Cousin  Tom,  raised  his  eyebrows :  "  Well,  good 
classical  schools  are  expensive;  but  they  may  be 
right.  He  would  meet  a  set  of  boys  it  might  be 
useful  for  him  to  know." 

25 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Anna,  in  behalf  of  the  absent,  exclaimed,  "They 
would  never  think  of  that  at  Tom's  age." 

"  Friendships  begin  at  that  age.  Engineers  should 
make  friends  with  Capital:  they  want  him  to  get 
on,  don't  they?" 

"In  their  sense,  of  course:  they  don't  expect  him 
to  be  wealthy." 

"What  does  an  engineer  want  with  Greek  and 
Latin?" 

"  They  have  their  ideas  —  very  good  ones.  Caro- 
line says  he  '11  never  touch  a  classic,  even  English, 
out  of  school :  he  's  all  construction,  mechanics ;  and 
the  masters  at  those  boy  universities  in  the  East  are 


men  —  " 


"In  the  East!"  Cousin  Tom  smiled  dryly:  — 
"  nothing  good  enough  out  here,  I  suppose  ?  How 
old  is  Tom?" 

"  About  twelve.  But  he  must  go  to  some  school. 
They  have  been  sending  him  to  a  district  school 
where  he  is  the  only  gentleman's  son  —  they  are 
very  amusing  about  it  —  so  afraid  of  the  word. 
But  I  can  see  Caroline  cringe  at  the  accent  he  is  be- 
ginning to  pick  up ;  that  boneless  English  with  a 
swagger  to  it  —  " 

"  That 's  all  foolishness :  a  boy  can't  go  around 
with  his  English  wrapped  in  a  napkin." 

"  He  can  be  sent  to  a  school  where  the  question 
does  n't  come  up ;  —  it  does  seem  as  if  our  own  tongue 
should  come  as  a  matter  of  course.  We  don't  want 
to  make  our  children  prigs,  listening  to  themselves 
talk,  nor  is  it  nice  to  have  them  talk  —  as  Tom  is 

26 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

beginning  to.  I  sympathize  entirely  with  Caroline.  — 
Engracia  she  gives  lessons  herself,  but  a  boy  must 
mix  with  other  boys." 

"  —  If  they  can  find  any  good  enough."  Cousin 
Tom's  intentions  left  room  for  a  little  sarcasm.  As 
the  outcome  of  this  conversation  he  offered,  through 
his  wife,  to  " stand"  young  Tom's  schooling  and 
mentioned  a  school  in  the  East  which  he  might  have 
chosen  for  a  boy  of  his  own.  His  wife  adored  him 
openly  for  his  handsome  way  of  doing  things :  she 
had  had  this  end  in  view  all  the  time. 

But  the  Scarths,  it  seemed,  had  decided  upon  St. 
Luke's  already.  They  thanked  Cousin  Tom  in  Caro- 
line's best  phrases,  but  the  offer  was  declined ;  they 
were  able  to  manage  it  themselves.  The  business 
man  said  nothing,  wondering  meanwhile  how  in  the 
deuce  Hal  Scarth  did  manage  it. 

Some  swift  years  passed  with  increasing  friend- 
ship on  the  women's  part  and  the  familiar  contra- 
dictoriness  on  the  men's,  expressed  in  offhand  lan- 
guage. Engracia's  turn  had  come,  and  she  went 
East  to  a  school  as  distinguished  for  girls  as  Tom's 
boy  university,  and  Cousin  Tom  came  out  flat  with 
the  question,  "  Has  Caroline  any  money  of  her  own  ?" 

" I  don't  know:  she  has  relatives  in  the  East  who 
are  very  good  to  her." 

"I 'ma relative — but  there  is  reason  in  all  things." 

"  Engracia  is  not  a  boarding-pupil  at  Miss  Deane's : 
she  stays  with  friends  of  Caroline's  —  not  smart  per- 
sons —  just  what  you  would  want  for  a  young  girl. 
It 's  the  tone  —  and  they  save  in  other  ways.  They 

27 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

keep  only  their  Chinaman  in  winter ;  Caroline  spends 
very  little  on  dress  —  relatives  again.  There  is  a 
*  Cousin  Olivia'  whose  gowns  she  comes  in  for :  it's 
their  little  joke  that  Cousin  Olivia  buys  all  her  things 
with  strict  reference  to  how  they  will  look  on  Caro- 
line. It 's  really  a  great  mercy  :  cheap  clothes  don't 
do  at  all  for  Caroline." 

"  Well,  she 's  a  clever  woman  :  why  can't  she  keep 
on  with  Engracia  herself?  " 

"  Teach  her  altogether,  you  mean  ?  " 

"Yes,  why  not?  Caroline  is  well  educated." 

"  Not  for  a  teacher ;  and  she  could  n't  teach  music 
and  dancing  —  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Is  that  sort  of  thing  so  necessary  in  Engracia's 
case  ?  If  they  want  to  send  her  East,  why  don't  they 
do  something  practical?  —  put  her  in  some  school 
like  Pratt's  Institute." 

Anna  was  scandalized  by  the  mere  name ;  it  had 
not  come  in  her  way  to  know  what  a  Pratt's  Insti- 
tute might  be  like. 

"  —  Certainly:  where  they  teach  all  the  new  arts 
and  crafts  and  fit  out  any  sort  of  talent  or  fraction  of 
a  talent,  and  prepare  a  girl  to  earn  her  living." 

"  Some  man  will  earn  a  living  for  Engracia,"  said 
Anna  coldly.  "  She  is  going  to  be  a  very  attractive 
girl." 

"  It  is  a  fallacy,  Anna,  to  suppose,  because  a  girl  is 
attractive,  she  is  sure  to  marry.  How  many  of  our 
handsomest  women  in  San  Francisco  have  made 
themselves  old  maids  by  their  own  perseverance." 

"Engracia  will  marry,"  Anna  nodded:  "she  may 

28 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

not  marry  wisely,  but  she  will  not  persevere  in  shirk- 
ing the  experiment.  She  has  -  "  Anna  hesitated  for 
an  adjective  delicate  enough  to  define  some  trait  she 
discerned  in  Engracia,  corresponding  to  the  slight 
rift  between  the  life-line  and  the  head-line  in  her  palm. 

"  You  think  she  might  plunge,  eh?" 

"  Only  for  one  reason.  She  has  imagination  enough 
to  complete  the  picture  if  some  man  can  give  her  a 
good  start —  on  high  grounds,  you  know.  She  would 
expect  a  great  deal,  but  she  might  think  she  had  got 
it  when  she  had  n't  at  all." 

"  You  have  rather  more  opinion  of  Tom's  common 
sense  ?  " 

"  But  I  like  her.  She  is  going  to  develop  great 
charm  —  type,  that  is  it :  the  rarest  thing  in  beauty 
we  have  left." 

"  Oh,  is  that  so?"  said  Cousin  Tom,  amused  at  his 
wife's  seriousness,  and  her  passion  for  making  a 
theory  to  fit  each  individual  case. 


CHAPTER   IV 

IT  was  March,  spring  of  nineteen  hundred  and  four : 
Japan  and  Russia  in  the  lime-light,  — great  impa- 
tience in  the  big  world  for  its  daily  paper ;  and  the 
Marysville  stage,  disgracefully  late,  plodding  up  the 
valley  with  news  of  that  astonishing  war. 

Scarth  had  closed  his  desk  early.  The  big  room 
downstairs,  besides  being  the  home  of  drafts  (Caro- 
line's admired  staircase  landed  just  opposite  the 
mouth  of  a  chimney  built  when  wood  was  cheap), 
harbored  presences  which  make  a  man  restless :  yet 
there  was  nothing  essentially  regrettable  in  the  ab- 
sence of  both  their  grown-up  children,  which  left  the 
house  so  wistful  as  the  rainy  winter  twilights  came 
on.  Engracia  was  in  New  York  giving  an  extra  year 
to  music,  chaperoned  by  one  of  those  numerous  dear 
cousins  to  whom  they  feared  no  obligation.  She  was 
a  year  older  than  Clare  Ludwell,  who  would  be  a  very 
select  bud  in  San  Francisco  next  season  —  that  was 
another  sort  of  efflorescence.  Engracia,  in  spite  of 
Cousin  Anna's  prediction,  might  very  conceivably  be 
called  on  to  face  a  life  of  high-minded  spinsterhood, 
but  she  could  n't  be  expected  to  without  the  mind,  and 
something  to  put  in  it  besides  dreams.  Caroline  had 
begun  to  admonish  herself  of  dreams  now  that  she  no 
longer  knew  what  her  only  girl  was  dreaming  about. 
She  felt  it  wiser  to  keep  the  waters  moving. 

30 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Tom  was  where  any  young  man,  that  year,  would 
have  thanked  his  stars  to  be :  his  own  father  envied 
him  his  front  seat  at  the  war,  and  mocked  the  mother 
of  her  fears — yet  gently.  This  was  the  boy's  fourth 
year  from  home  and  her  face  began  to  show  it. 

An  aged  bull-terrier,  victim  of  the  fire  habit,  rose 
up  stiffly,  yawned  and  followed  Scarth  upstairs.  He 
entered  his  mistress's  presence  with  fond,  obsequious 
head,  wagged  across  to  her  and  let  himself  down  on 
the  edge  of  her  skirt:  "Ye  gods  !  another  fire  !" 

"  Has  he  been  out  at  all  to-day  ?  "  she  asked  guilt- 
ily :  it  was  her  task  to  exercise  Bran  —  being  the  only 
known  means  of  making  her  walk  regularly  herself. 

"  He  went  with  Moon  when  he  carried  scraps  to 
the  hens ;  —  old  gun-fighter — feeding  hens ! "  Scarth 
poked  the  obese  sinner  with  his  foot  and  Bran  rolled 
over  and  lolled  at  him  shamelessly.  Caroline  put  on 
her  raincoat  and  buttoned  it,  talking  to  Bran. 

"  Come,  you  old  baby,  we  must  do  our  piazza-stunt, 

—  bear  up!" 

She  had  heard  the  belated  stage  drive  past,  having 
left  the  mail,  but  pretended  that  she  had  n't;  mail- 
times  were  a  form  of  torture  to  her  these  days.  Tom 
had  not  been  heard  from  since  November.  He  was  in 
Korea,  on  his  first  job,  shut  up  by  winter  and  the  war. 
It  was  hardly  conceivable  that  he  had  seen  no  fighting 

—  still  they  could  not  hear.    Her  custom  was  to  stir 
about  as  the  hour  approached —  "  any  noise,  bad  or 
good," —  to  pass  off  the  sickening  moments  of  sus- 
pense.   The  up-stage  was   frightfully  irregular  this 
stormy  weather. 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

On  the  stairs  she  encountered  Moon,  Chinese  cook 
and  high  factotum  of  the  household.  He  held  the  wet 
mail-pouch  away  from  her  skirt,  but  would  not  yield 
it  to  any  hand  but  that  of  "  boss." 

"  Stage  heap  late !  No  got  garden  -  seed  —  say 
'  not  up  to  him ' ;  —  big  wash  -  out  —  Wyoming.  — 
Can  see  for  'self  in  paper."  Garden-seeds,  nearly  the 
whole  of  Mrs.  Scarth's  summer  annuals,  had  gone 
astray ;  'Gene  Thompson,  covering  his  own  position 
in  the  matter,  had  asked  (but  this  Moon  did  not  re- 
peat), "  What  in  thunder  she  want  to  send  way  East 
for,  anyway?  Ain't  ther'  no  nurs'ries  in  California 
good  'nough  for  her?" 

Caroline  followed  the  mail-bag,  and  Bran,  much 
relieved,  returned  to  his  fire.  There  was  no  thin  gray 
envelope  with  the  blue  Korean  stamp.  She  threw  off 
her  coat  and  stood  at  the  window,  watching  the  same 
prospect,  through  the  same  blurring  mist,  the  same 
intermittent  showers  of  drops  from  blowing  trees 
though  the  rain  had  ceased ;  a  faint  yellowish  streak, 
low  in  the  west,  showed  where  another  day  was  end- 
ing, precisely  like  the  day  before. 

"  We  shall  find,"  said  Scarth,  observing  his  wife's 
back,  "  that  the  boy's  letters  are  held  up  in  Tokio. 
They  are  stopping  everything  out  of  Korea,  now  the 
Japanese  army  is  pushing  through." 

"  Japan  has  not  been  pushing  through  all  winter," 
she  answered  wearily. 

"We'll  get  them  all  in  a  bunch  after  a  while. 
There  's  a  military  censorship,  you  know.  They  have 
piles  of  stuff  to  go  through." 

32 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

He  opened  the  evening  paper,  handing  her  with  a 
smile  one  of  the  new  April  magazines.  With  a  smile 
she  refused  it,  and  came  and  looked  over  his  shoulder 
instead.  She  alone  was  responsible  for  the  theory 
that  "none  of  these  West  Coast  dailies  appeal  to 
me  "  ;  it  was  through  no  meekness  on  her  part  that 
the  man  always  read  them  first.  But  these  were  spe- 
cial times,  and  to-night  there  was  a  special  reason 
why  he  would  have  kept  the  paper  from  her  if  he 
could,  —  but  of  course  he  could  n't ;  — the  very  item 
she  was  filching  now  over  his  shoulder  would  infalli- 
bly keep  her  awake  till  dawn. 

"  Danger  to  Americans  in  Korea.  Our  consul  wired 
for  a  force  of  marines  from  U.S.  gunboat  at  Chemulpo 
to  protect  life  and  property  on  American  mining  con- 
cession at  Unsan.  Ladies  sent  down  with  strong 
guard  to  Ping  Yang." 

If  only  Tom  had  been  one  of  that  strong  guard, 
—  but  he  was  a  hundred  miles  away  in  a  separate 
province.  If  troops  were  called  for  at  armed  and 
garrisoned  Unsan,  how  about  lonely  little  Wiju ! 

Some  of  those  newspaper  young  gentlemen  who 
were  not  "  at  the  front,"  disgusted  because  they 
could  n't  get  there  and  tired  of  the  Japanese  official 
lie,  had  been  working  up  rumors  to  make  copy, 
which  the  home  papers  eagerly  spread.  And  here 
was  another  shocker :  — 

"  Three  hundred  Cossacks  encamped  on  the  Peking 
road.  They  have  looted  and  occupied  the  village  of 
Maibong.  Native  inhabitants  all  fled  to  the  moun- 
tains." 

33 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Harry,  Wiju  is  very  near  the  Peking  road,  and 
Tom  has  only  one  white  man  ! " 

"The  natives,  my  dear,  are  absolute  sheep:  of 
course  they  fled  to  the  mountains.  Cossacks  are  not 
officered  by  Cossacks  —  and  what  is  a  Cossack  ?  —  a 
very  good  fellow,  according  to  Tolstoy." 

"  Oh,  Tolstoy  1  —  That  was  the  Cossack  at  home  ; 
this  is  war ! " 

"It's  Tom  ;  that 's  what  it  is." 

"Well,  then,  it  is  Tom."  Her  lips  trembled.  "I 
can't  help  it.  Do  you  pretend  that  you  are  not  anx- 
ious too  ? " 

"  It  all  sounds  like  poppy-cock  to  me,"  her  wrath- 
ful comforter  insisted.  "They  are  not  likely  to  go 
on  scout  by  hundreds :  fifty  fellows,  perhaps,  on  for- 
age duty.  If  the  people  run  away,  they  help  them- 
selves. They  won't  loot  Uncle  Sam  much.  As  for 
marines  mixing  in  —  a  nice  mess  that  would  kick 
up  in  the  State  Department." 

"  Who  can  tell  what  may  be  happening  out  there?  " 

"We  know  what's  happening  in  Washington. 
The  navy  can't  do  that  sort  of  thing  without  orders. 
• —  Come,"  he  said,  seeing  that  she  pined  just  the 
same  and  his  arguments  wearied  her,  —  "  come,  let 's 
see  about  Wiju." 

They  had  seen  about  Wiju,  how  often  only  the 
atlas  knew,  since  Tom  went  off  there  "  on  his  own," 
and  made  them  so  proud  of  his  young  responsibilities. 
Wiju,  apparently,  had  not  moved  from  its  corner  in 
the  crooked  yellow  peninsula.  While  she  hovered  over 
the  Peking  road  which  appeared  to  be  the  only  road 

34 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

in  Korea,  he,  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  with  a  supe- 
rior-pointed pencil,  composed  a  cablegram  to  their 
son.  It  was  getting  to  be  time  on  several  accounts 
the  young  man  should  be  heard  from. 

He  submitted  it,  and  she  thanked  him  rapturously, 
though  it  startled  her  a  little  to  find  that  he  shared 
her  anxiety,  after  all. 

"  Could  n't  you  simply  say,  *  Come  home/  and 
leave  out  about  'work  here  if  you  want  it?'  I'm 
afraid  he  won't  want  it.  You  don't  cable  him  about 
the  work." 

"  Tom  is  a  man,"  his  father  answered  dryly ;  "  I 
can't  order  him  home." 

Caroline  assented  with  a  pang  of  pride  and  appre- 
hension. Yes,  Tom  was  a  man.  There  had  been  no 
need  to  push  him  out  of  the  nest.  The  Korean  job 
was  his  first  offer,  and  he  took  it,  of  course,  regard- 
less of  pay.  He  went  off  glorious  on  fifty  the  month, 
expenses,  and  passage  out  —  and  back,  if  he  gave 
satisfaction  and  stuck  his  three  years  out.  He  set  his 
teeth  on  the  resolve  that  he  would  stick  fast  enough, 
if  the  Lord  would  let  him. 

Nice  things  were  said  about  his  work  in  course  of 
time,  which  Cousin  Tom  heard  in  the  company's 
office  and  took  pains  should  reach  the  young  man's 
parents.  Cousin  Tom  was  thoughtful  in  such  ways ; 
and  it  cheers  the  burdened  rich  to  get  another  poor 
relation  comfortably  off  their  minds,  aside  from  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  any  young  man  make  good  in 
a  world  so  full  of  failures. 

But  when  Tom's  contract  was  up,  he  did  not  come 

35 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

home  and  he  did  not  renew  —  it  had  been  preached 
to  him  by  his  sire  that  experience  is  "  the  road  the 
younger  son  must  tread"  in  the  profession  that  is 
never  learned  and  is  always  working  itself  out  of  a  job. 

"  Experience  is  an  engineer's  capital,"  said  Scarth, 
senior.  "  Make  your  foundation  broad.  You  won't 
stop  to  broaden  once  you  begin  to  climb."  So  Tom 
broadened  on  to  irrigation,  which  can  give  as  many 
falls  as  narrower  things,  with  no  more  emoluments 
noticeably  to  the  square  mile  of  steady  worry ;  —  and 
Cousin  Tom  disapproved  in  some  alarm. 

"  I  would  n't  have  him  leave  that  company  :  they 
mean  to  do  well  by  him.  What  does  he  want  to  run 
off  for?" 

"  I  expect  he  will  do  as  he  likes,"  said  his  father, 
secretly  tickled  that  the  boy  had  done  so,  and  asked 
advice  afterwards  —  in  the  form  of  borrowing,  by 
steamer-mail,  his  father's  best  books  on  irrigation. 
Men  with  great  fortunes  in  trust  may  be  excused  for 
hovering  over  the  sons  they  are  preparing  for  the 
burden: — not  so  the  "light-runners"  of  this  world. 
Tom's  opportunity  had  come  from  a  native  syndicate 
of  rich  Koreans  who  were  putting  a  tunnel  through 
a  hill  to  lead  water  on  to  extensive  rice-lands  near 
Wiju  ;  —  one  of  those  broad,  treeless  valleys  between 
sudden  mountains,  beautiful  in  its  fertile  isolation, 
floored  with  fields  of  rice  and  millet  and  beans,  flocked 
over  by  cloud-shadows  and  troops  of  birds.  —  What 
a  country  to  forage,  what  a  trap  for  noncombatants 
between  the  advancing  armies !  —  voice  of  Tom's 
mother  in  parenthesis. 

36 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Here  was  the  free  hand  which  every  builder  loves 
and  the  ramifications  of  a  work  answering  to  the 
needs  of  a  populous  province  —  powers  one  could 
handle  like  a  machine  or  grow  up  to  like  a  man. 
Tom  had  seen  how  that  was  with  his  father  who  had 
to  do  with  the  people's  bread.  Besides,  the  amusing 
connection  with  silk-coated  higher-ups  of  a  mysteri- 
ous race  that  tugged  at  your  sympathies  through  its 
manifest  doom  to  come.  Nor  was  the  salary  in  this 
case  so  negligible:  the  gentlemen  in  tortoise-shell 
spectacles  invited  him  to  name  his  price.  They  had 
broadened  a  little  themselves,  having  started  their 
tunnel  with  faith  but  no  instruments  ;  —  the  ends  lost 
themselves  somewhere  in  the  heart  of  the  hill.  A 
narrow-eyed  son  of  the  syndicate  employed  as  clerk 
of  stores  at  Unsan,  observing  how  Tom's  "  connec- 
tions "  worked  out,  imparted  these  wonders  to  whom 
they  concerned,  and  the  syndicate,  through  its  dis- 
cerning son,  prostrated  itself  at  the  feet  of  Tom's 
tripod  with  the  little  telescope  on  top  that  could  see 
through  mountains. 

"  But  does  Tom  know  anything  about  irrigation  ?" 
asked  Cousin  Tom.  "  I  thought  he  was  going  to  be 
a  mining-engineer." 

"  He 's  going  to  be  an  engineer,  I  hope,"  said 
Tom's  father.  "If  he  can't  get  onto  this  job  he  can 
mighty  soon  get  off  it  —  what  he  has  to  learn  is, 
Can  he  handle  men?  " 

Tom  handled  his  Koreans  and  he  called  them 
men;  there  seemed  no  mystery  about  it.  The  method, 
whatever  it  was,  resulted  in  tolerable  efficiency, 

37 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

on  their  side,  honesty  as  it  goes  (while  they  might 
be'  stealing  the  company's  powder  and  candles), 
the  gentlest  manners,  and  a  dog-like  trust.  On  his, 
a  curious  growth  of  feeling  where  he  had  thought 
himself  as  cold  as  his  own  plumb-bob,  —  which  none 
of  his  native  assistants  could  learn  should  not  rest 
on  the  ground  in  seeking  a  perpendicular.  He  did 
not  know  why  it  hurt  him,  and  no  one  saw  that  it  did, 
when  his  interpreter,  Pak,  quite  the  gentleman  in 
European  clothes,  followed  him,  weeping  into  his 
cuffs,  down  the  road  between  the  millet-fields,  when 
Tom  turned  his  back  upon  his  dreams  of  reputation 
in  that  little  corner  of  the  world. 

For  that  had  happened  which  one  of  his  overdue 
letters  might  have  warned  them  of  at  home;  how 
the  quiet  of  its  opening  sentences  would  have  eased 
her  nerves,  if  his  mother  could  have  read  it  in  time  !  — 

"  The  war  I  'm  afraid  is  going  to  shut  us  down, 
and  for  a  peculiar  reason.  We  can't  get  money  to 
pay  our  men.  The  Koreans  will  accept  nothing  but 
silver,  which  the  banks  refuse  to  give  up.  There  is 
no  currency  in  the  country,  and  the  people  would 
rather  go  hungry  than  take  pay  in  money  they  don't 
understand.  They  are  so  frightened,  many  of  them 
will  not  plant  crops,  and  the  men  are  drawn  off  by 
the  high  pay  they  get  as  teamsters  and  carriers  for 
the  Japanese  army.  You  can  bet  Japan  pays  for 
everything  now !  She  's  not  stirring  up  bad  blood 
behind  her  with  the  Ruskies  in  front. 

"  If  I  have  to  leave  here,  I  shall  go  home  by  way 
of  China,  India,  Port  Said,  and  a  few  little  side-shows 

38 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

like  Singapore  and  London.  It's  the  chance  of  a 
lifetime,  what  ?  Get  out  your  map  of  the  world,  folks, 
and  look  for  my  home-pennon  about  July.  —  Might 
call  it  a  visit,  if  there  is  anything  left  here  to  finish, 
after  the  war.  It  does  n't  look  as  if  it  could  last  long, 
but  poor  old  Korea  in  any  case  will  be  jolly  well  'gilt 
in  de  grush  ! '  " 

Two  sentences  in  this  letter  underscored  by  the 
censor's  pencil  gave  it  to  the  flames. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  farmers'  and  ditch-men's  rain  cleared  off  cold, 
with  a  dash  of  hail  and  wind-clouds  trooping  out  of 
a  high,  bare  sky.  Scarth  had  not  been  home  to  lunch, 
but  he  " hit  it"  just  as  the  stage  arrived, keeping  up 
its  winter  habits.  He  had  promised  to  speak  to  'Gene 
himself  about  those  garden-seeds. 

"  Moon  will  bring  up  your  lunch,"  Caroline  men- 
tioned as  she  whisked  through  the  chilly  office.  "  I 
have  a  good  fire  upstairs." 

She  had  given  thought  to  that  lunch.  When  her 
man  missed  a  regular  meal  and  came  home  tired  and 
famished,  the  flesh  must  not  be  trifled  with.  He  had 
never  spared  his  flesh  nor  any  part  of  him  in  the 
high  necessities  of  his  Work,  but  now  he  would 
"  never  see  fifty  again "  —  time  to  take  in  sail,  as 
wisdom  words  it.  When  this  means  eating  less  than 
you  want  at  every  meal  and  avoiding  most  that  you 
particularly  enjoy,  the  wretch  needs  what  support 
his  family  can  give  him  ;  at  least  his  path  need  not 
be  wantonly  strewn  with  temptations.  This  is  a  very 
delicate  duty  for  a  wife  to  attempt ;  wives  are  apt  to 
put  too  much  feeling  into  it.  A  cook  can  help,  but 
good  cooks  are  more  often  in  league  with  the  arch- 
enemy, appetite.  This  was  the  hitch  with  Moon. 
They  had  had  him  so  long ;  they  liked  him  so  well ; 
they  were  bound  to  him  in  the  fatal  chains  of  habit. 

40 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

And  Moon  had  habits  too :  he  could  not  change.  His 
cooking  was  "great"  for  young  adventurers  on  the 
high  seas  of  digestion,  but  for  those  who  creep  along 
the  graveyard  routes,  Moon's  accredited  list  offered 
dangers  worse  than  icebergs  wrapped  in  fog. 

It  was  hard  for  the  poor  Old  Thing,  his  mistress 
owned  it  mournfully.  Dishes  he  had  erst  been  lauded 
for,  and  had  built  up  an  envied  reputation  on,  were 
now  discouraged  or  mutely  set  aside  ;  or  the  mistress 
would  come  into  Moon's  kitchen  and  plead  with  him 
not  to  serve  the  same  again  without  special  orders. 

"  '  Special  order  T  '  How  many  years  had  the  mis- 
tress gone  her  ways  and  Moon  his  ?  — she  had  hardly 
known  what  was  for  dinner  in  her  own  house ;  and 
now  it  was,  "  *  Moon,  please  not  this  —  please  not 
that  ? '  —  Too  muchee  all  time  talk :  meals  plenty 
good." 

However,  there  could  be  no  quarrel  with  that  tray. 
Creamed  sweetbreads  (a  left-over  but  none  the  worse 
for  that)  on  rounds  of  fresh-made  toast — pastry 
being  taboo ;  cold  chicken  garnished  with  Moon's 
beautiful  early  lettuce,  which  he  raised  himself,  and 
in  one  leaf  nestled  a  serving  of  that  most  innocu- 
ous salad,  apple  and  spaghetti.  Finally,  to  show  her- 
self wisely  human,  Caroline  had  added  the  last  in- 
significant section  of  a  ripe  Sierra  cheese  ;  —  Scarth 
treated  it  as  a  specimen,  and  studied  it  through  his 
curved  palm  as  if  to  assist  the  naked  eye  in  locat- 
ing it  on  his  plate.  Caroline  smiled,  but  she  did  not 
apologize.  And  there  was  tea  which  she  would  drink 
herself,  —  coffee  was  anathema.  The  man  had  drunk 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

gallons  of  it,  black ;  sooner  than  trifle  with  dilute 
imitations  he  let  the  cup  pass  from  him.  Hot  water 
was  his  ironic  beverage  in  these  days. 

Upon  all  this  peace  with  honor  comes  Moon  bump- 
ing in  importantly  without  knocking.  He  set  down 
on  the  hearth  a  pair  of  kitchen-plates  carried  in  a 
clean  dish-towel,  whisked  off  the  top  plate  and  looked 
at  "  boss." 

"  Col'  day.  Hot  saush'  heap  good." 

Mrs.  Scarth  gazed  in  horror :  four  rich,  brown 
cakes  of  pork  sausage,  sparkling  with  fat  —  the 
peculiar  weakness  of  man !  This  was  no  common 
butcher-stall  blend :  the  recipe  came  down  with  the 
sanction  of  four  generations  from  a  Rhode  Island 
great-grandmother  of  Quaker  memory.  There  was 
perhaps  only  one  thing  better  and  more  deadly  in 
that  Quaker  cook-book,  —  which  was  Caroline's 
great-grandmother's  mince  pies.  These  deceits  of  the 
flesh  were  still  practiced  for  hospitality's  sake  and 
because  Christmas  is  Christmas,  even  in  California, 
where  Nature's  all  the  year  bounty  makes  ridiculous 
the  huge  winter  provisioning  of  our  ancestors. 

Moon  stood  at  gaze,  completely  happy :  who  could 
snub  him!  Caroline  smiled  feebly.  "I  hardly  think 
he  will  care  for  the  sausage,  Moon.  You  eat  him  — 
you  like  sausage?" 

"Moon  eat  that  sausage?  —  not  much!"  shouts 
boss  in  the  voice  of  great  cheer  Moon  loved.  — 
"  Chicken  and  sausage  —  I  guess  not ! " 

Moon  retired  chuckling :  "  Heap  good  —  boss  heap 
hungly.  Big  man  —  mus'  eat!" 

42 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

He  had  fore-reached  on  the  mistress  this  time; 
futile  person  who  messed  with  cook-books  and  lis- 
tened to  a  fool  doctor.  Moon  knew  that  if  he  could 
but  catch  one  little  wood-pussy  and  send  the  crea- 
ture's heart  down  city  to  China  doctor  there,  boss 
might  be  cured  of  those  devilish  pains  at  night  which 
set  the  look  of  death  on  his  handsome  features. 

But  they  were  all  crazy  (clazy),  white  women  and 
their  doctors,  and  they  talk-talk  —  when  boss  not 
there  —  " '  not  eat  this  —  not  eat  that '  —  foo !  look  at 
boy,  look  at  girl,  look  at  lady  'self !  Eat  same  thing 
—  no  get  sick.  Big  man  mus*  eat:  no  can  live  on 
je-e-ly!" — those  pitiful  aspics  the  mistress  wasted 
good  meat  on,  which  boss  and  Moon  despised  1 

Moon  felt  what  a  greater  than  many  Moons  has 
said,  in  man's  charity  for  man :  "  Men  of  this  arterial 
blood  cannot  live  on  nuts,  herb-tea,  and  elegies.  They 
are  made  for  war,  for  the  sea,  for  mining,  hunting, 
and  clearing,  huge  risks  and  the  joy  of  adventurous 
living." 

That  was  her  man :  Caroline  knew  his  type  and 
exulted  in  it  out  of  the  heart  of  her  groaning  fears. 
But  we  may  be  sure  she  did  not  read  that  passage 
in  her  Emerson  to  her  man  of  arterial  blood;  she 
needed  it  —  he  did  not.  She  must  take  the  boss  as 
God  made  him.  They  would  have  a  night  of  it :  mean- 
while, there  he  lay  in  the  pride  of  fresh  transgression, 
feeding  chicken-bones  to  Bran,  another  arterial  sin- 
ner:  "An  old  dog  can  eat  chicken-bones  —  he  knows 
how."  The  question  came  up  regularly  on  chicken- 
days,' Caroline  confident  that  Bran  would  die  of  a 

43 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

sliver  crossways,  Scarth  taking  glorious  chances,  as 
with  himself. 

Having  finished  his  bones,  Bran  climbed  up  with 
them  all  inside  and  squeezed  down  behind  Scarth's 
legs.  He  turned  his  warty  cheek  away  like  a  bashful 
maid,  when  offered  a  sniff  of  his  master's  cigar,  but 
swallowed  the  insult,  and  presently  there  was  great 
peace  between  the  three,  —  man,  woman,  and  beast, 
as  in  the  first  paradise.  Though  we  have  tasted  of 
temptation,  the  Lord  has  not  called  us  yet  in  the 
voice  of  great  pains  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  from  Anna ;  I  wonder  how  I  came 
to  miss  it!"  Caroline  picked  it  out  eagerly  from 
Scarth's  heap  of  business  envelopes.  He  opened  his 
eyes,  having  just  dropped  off. 

"  —  Want  me  to  read  it  to  you?  Anna  writes  such 
nice  letters." 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  Scarth  resignedly. 

The  letter  began  as  usual — the  part  most  men 
omit  when  they  write  letters ;  —  "I  am  glad  you 
have  cabled  Tom  to  come  home.  I  think  you  are 
very  wise  to  do  so,  both  on  his  account  and  yours." 

"  I  never  said  we  had  cabled  him  to  come  home," 
Caroline  broke  off  to  protest ;  she  was  annoyed  be- 
cause she  had  so  nearly  said  so  and  the  difference 
had  been  lost  on  her  friend. 

"It  does  n't  matter,"  said  Scarth. 

"  Why,  it  does  !  you  particularly  did  not  wish  to 
order  him  home." 

"  They  thought  I  ought  to,  so  it  comes  to  the  same 
thing,"  he  answered  drowsily. 

44 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Mrs.  Scarth  read  on  ;  her  face  underwent  a  series 
of  slight  but  expressive  changes.  Cousin  Anna's  let- 
ters ordinarily  were  plain  sailing:  she  answered  a 
letter  as  she  would  make  a  call.  There  was  never 
anything  in  them  to  regret,  seldom  anything  to  re- 
member. In  this  case  some  concern  on  her  mind  had 
moved  her  to  speak  with  unusual  force  and  earnest- 
ness. The  effect,  though  warm,  was  somewhat  dis- 
turbing: Caroline  immediately  asked  herself,  "What 
have  /been  saying?" 

"  It  is  mostly  about  you,"  she  faltered. 

"Me!" 

"Your  health." 

"What  does  she  know  about  my  health ? " 

" I'm  sorry  I  ever  said  anything.  Naturally  she 
exaggerates  what  little  I  did  say." 

Scarth  smiled.  His  wife  was  much  too  sincere,  and 
often  too  excited  a  talker  to  be  able  to  hear  herself 
talk,  or  to  measure  the  force  of  her  own  expressions. 
A  double  distillation  of  the  truth  appeared  to  be  re- 
acting now  upon  its  author. 

"  Everything  we  do  seems  to  them  so  ill-advised — " 

"  As  we  state  it,  perhaps.  Come,  I  have  heard  you 
talk  to  Anna.  Don't  tell  me  she  does  all  the  exagger- 
ating." 

"I  cannot  make  Anna  see  that  I  could  no  more 
live  her  life  than  she  could  live  mine." 

"  But  you  could,  you  know ;  and  Anna  would  make 
a  first-class  poor  man's  wife." 

"  You  are  mistaken  —about  me ;  but  that  is  n't  the 
question." 

45 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"What's  Anna  been  doing? "  asked  Scarth,  who 
was  very  fond  of  Mrs.  Cousin  Tom. 

"I'm  not  talking  of  Anna — Anna  is  perfectly 
sweet  and  dear,  but  she  is  almost  too  well-bred.  She 
keeps  her  gilded  side  too  carefully  out  of  my  sight. 
She  has  got  outside  things  to  talk  about ;  it  would 
amuse  me  very  much  to  hear  about  her  life,  and  not 
dazzle  me  beyond  endurance ;  but  she  makes  me  do 
the  first  person,  and  it 's  a  bad  plan.  I  've  only  inside 
things  to  talk  of ;  and  when  I  laugh  over  our  scram' s, 
she  thinks  it  is  my  wonderful  pluck  and  endurance, 
carrying  it  off.  And  sometimes  she  misunderstands 
so  completely  that  I  am  confounded.  So  I  sit  up  and 
explain,  and  then  we  get  in  deeper." 

Scarth  treated  all  this  as  introductory  and  withheld 
comment ;  he  was  not  in  fact  wholly  awake. 

"  She  cannot  understand  my  life  because  it 's  your 
life,  and  you  she  never  will  understand,  for  she  knows 
you  only  through  Cousin  Tom." 

"  Who  expects  to  be  understood  ?  Trying  to  explain 
only  makes  matters  worse." 

"  But  it 's  inhuman  not  to  want  your  friends  to 
understand ;  and  when  you  feel  yourself  partly  re- 
sponsible, you  want  to  take  back  something — " 
Caroline  ended  weakly. 

"  You  can  take  back  your  husband :  leave  the  old 
man  out  of  your  tales." 

"  But  he 's  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  my  tales. 
I'd  like  to  know  if  I  ever  do  anything  that  isn't 
founded  in  some  way  on  you?" 

"Well,  what's  the  row  about?" 

46 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  No  row  at  all.  I ' ve  been  describing  to  Anna  some 
of  our  queer  trips  together.  I  was  too  realistic,  it 
seems.  She  doesn't  see,  to  begin  with,  why  I  go 
with  you  at  all  to  such  places,  when  it 's  only  busi- 
ness and  I  've  been  over  the  roads  so  many  times  be- 
fore." 

"  Well,  why  should  she  see  ?  " 

"  —  Because  I  am  thin  and  nervous,  and  she  sees 
that  I  'm  anxious  sometimes,  she  thinks  I  am  all  run 
down ;  and  because  I  told  her  once  about  the  room 
we  slept  in  at  Brandy  City  "  —  Caroline  broke  off 
to  laugh  —  "  she  imagines  my  life  is  all  one  Brandy 
City.  She  asks  herself  why  I  do  it,  and  she  asks 
me!" 

"  Then  it 's  you  she  is  worrying  about  ?  " 

"Yes  — till  I  really  had  to  explain." 

"  Explain?" 

"Yes,  dear;  women  do  explain  —  to  those  they 
care  for,  whom  they  know  they  can  trust.  No  woman 
likes  to  be  thought  a  nuisance,  tagging  after  her 
husband,  —  afraid  to  let  him  go  anywhere  alone.  It 
looks,  don't  you  see,  like  a  want  of  confidence  in  the 
man  himself." 

"Come,  now,  Carrie!  Anna  is  a  lady." 

"I  assure  you  things  transpire  without  a  word, 
between  two  who  understand  each  other." 

"  You  've  just  said  she  never  could  understand  —  " 

"  I  said  she  overshot  the  mark.  She  is  surrounded 
with  it  —  they  are  surprised  at  nothing.  I  really 
could  not  bear  the  inference  I  saw  shaping  itself  in 
her  mind.  Not  that  they  would  n't  condone  it  —  but 

47 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

I  will  not  be  pitied  for  that!  So  I  told  her  there  was 
a  constant  fear  —  those  turns  we  dread  so.  And  the 
wretched  food  at  those  places  which  is  poison  to 
you.  Even  if  I  can't  help,  I  must  know  —  " 

They  were  past  laughter  now,  though  Caroline's 
halting  confession  had  been  attended  with  sufficient 
mirth  to  prove  them  still  friends. 

"  I  don't  fancy  your  telling  her  that."  Scarth  sat 
up  rather  hard-eyed,  but  his  voice  had  not  changed. 

"  I  knew  you  would  hate  it,"  she  mourned,  "  and 
I  hated  most  awfully  to  tell  you.  But  how  could  I 
stand  her  sympathy,  and  her  admiration  for  the  way 
I  bear  it ! " 

"  Bear  what  ?   Come,  out  with  it ! " 

"  That  you  drink  too  much,  in  short,  —  if  I'm  not 
with  you.  That's  what  she  pities  me  for;  that's  why 
they  are  so  relieved  to  hear  we  have  cabled  to 
Tom!" 

"I  see,"  said  Scarth  grimly.  "Old  man  breaking 
up  ;  —  strain  of  looking  after  him  getting  too  much 
for  the  little  mother  all  alone." 

"  But  read  the  letter,"  Caroline  grieved.  "  She  is 
a  dear  friend.  She 's  the  only  woman  I  ever  talk  to 
—  she  's  the  only  woman  I  've  had,  absolutely,  since 
the  spring  they  came  up  here  and  I  fell  in  love  with 
her  on  the  spot !  She  keeps  things  separate  ;  she  is 
loyal  —  she  never  speaks  of  what  she  would  n't  have 
spoken  of — " 

"  Well,  well ;  I  believe  you,"  said  Scarth.  "  You 
need  n't  apologize  for  either  of  you,  desperate  char- 
acters as  you  are." 

48 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

But  there  was  a  point  still  left  to  make,  perhaps 
the  most  difficult  of  all.  "  Anna  is  constantly  think- 
ing of  others.  She  is  tired  this  spring,  and  yet  she 
is  planning  to  have  us  there  when  we  go  down  to 
meet  Tom." 

"  Did  any  one  say  we  were  going  down  to  meet 
Tom?" 

"  But  we  are,  and  we  shall  stay  with  them,  of  course. 
I  love  it  when  we  are  both  there ;  you  and  Cousin 
Tom  are  so  funny  together !  But  what  does  it  matter 
when  people  have  such  kind  hearts  and  are  so  inter- 
ested ?  Anna  begs  me  to  persuade  you  to  see  one  of 
the  big  surgeons,  when  you  are  down ;  —  have  a 
thorough  examination  I " 

"That,  of  course,  we  can't  discuss,"  said  Scarth, 
rising,  a  clark  color  in  his  face.  He  stood  back  to 
the  fire  and  looked  beyond  her  sternly.  Outsiders 
who  saw  him  seldom  had  begun  to  observe  changes 
in  his  countenance,  lines  and  lapses,  pallor  with  dis- 
coloration ;  —  signs  a  physician  reads  at  a  glance. 

He  had  smiled  over  that  other  form  of  condolence 
which  she  found  unbearable,  but  now  he  did  not  smile. 

"  I  shall  see  a  surgeon,  after  Tom  comes  back  — 
after  I  have  seen  him ;  not  before." 

"  But  the  risks"  — she  released  a  deep  breath  and 
looked  at  him  timidly  —  "  going  on  so,  in  the  dark  ! " 

"  There  are  risks  the  other  way." 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured. 

"  If  I  put  myself  in  Symington's  hands  I  shall  ex- 
pect to  go  through  with  it.  I  must  see  the  boy  first." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  the  2 9th  of  March,  and  you  would  have 
known  that  spring  had  come  in  Wiju  by  the  troops 
of  babies,  mostly  naked,  playing  in  its  mud-walled 
streets  —  little  brown  babies  who  creep  out  of  sight 
like  flies  in  winter  and  are  not  seen  again  till  the 
sun  warms  their  bare  bellies,  and  ice  on  glazed 
puddles  can  be  broken  by  a  baby  toe. 

Tom  might  have  mentioned, — but  for  some  reason 
he  did  not,  —  in  one  of  those  letters  which  never  got 
past  Tokio,  that  so  far  from  being  alone  in  Wiju 
with  one  white  man,  he  had  had  the  company  since 
January  of  two  agreeable  ladies,  the  wife  and  pretty 
daughter  of  one  of  our  missionaries  in  Korea. 

It  is  probably  known  that  most  of  them  are  labor- 
ers in  the  cheerful  vineyards  around  Seoul,  yet  there 
is  no  idealistic  calling  that  does  not  attract  a  few 
genuine  idealists  to  its  lonelier  paths,  and  our  Mr. 
Gladwyn  was  one  of  these.  He  may  have  been  a 
provoking  saint  in  many  ways,  still  he  was  a  saint, 
and  his  was  the  faith  for  which  men  die  to  the  sense 
of  meaner  obligations.  He  sacrificed  others  as  cheer- 
fully as  himself,  and  honored  his  wife  with  her  full 
share  in  the  hardships  of  his  wildest  pilgrimages, 
where  she  added  her  medical  to  his  evangelical 
help.  It  was  in  some  isolated  hamlet,  a  day  or  two's 
travel  from  Wiju,  that  they  were  caught  at  the 

50 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ing  of  winter ;  rumors  of  Russian  soldiery  scattered 
his  little  flock ;  he  brought  down  his  women  to  the 
engineers'  cantonment,  and  went  back  himself  to 
round  them  up  among  the  graves  of  their  kindred  in 
the  high  places.  So,  although  in  no  danger  from 
Cossacks  as  Cossacks,  it  was  due  to  those  parties  of 
the  broad-faced  fellows  roaming  about  that  Tom  was 
finally  exposed  to  a  much  more  serious  peril,  all 
that  winter  of  war's  alarms. 

If  his  mother  could  have  looked  in  upon  them  in 
Wiju  and  have  seen  him  photographing  Korean 
babies,  with  Mary  Gladwyn  laughing  and  helping 
to  keep  them  still ;  or  that  utter  stranger,  Mrs.  Glad- 
wyn, domiciled  with  her  knitting  in  her  son's  quar- 
ters, his  only  spare  chair  drawn  up  to  the  lamp  with 
Mary  in  it  reading  aloud  in  a  voice  as  sweet  as  an 
English  girl's  and  with  something  of  an  English  ac- 
cent to  prove  her  a  cosmopolitan,  the  lamplight  fall- 
ing on  her  remarkable  head  of  hair,  I  think  there 
might  have  been  restless  nights  just  the  same  for  a 
mother  who  was  looking  for  an  angel  to  mate  with 
her  son,  and  saw  no  particular  hurry  even  for  her. 

Though  Mary  might  be  related  to  saints  and  their 
works,  she  was  not  in  training  for  sainthood  herself, 
nor  was  the  wonderful  hair  angelic  in  color,  if  we  may 
trust  the  ancient  popular  prejudice.  As  to  the  ar- 
rangement which  looked  so  intimate,  Mrs.  Gladwyn 
had  settled  all  that  on  a  strict  business  basis  as  the 
first  condition  of  accepting  (or  perhaps  one  should  say 
claiming)  Tom's  hospitality.  As  we  have  said,  she 
was  a  medical  missionary — in  Tom's  secular  opinion 


THE   VALLEY  ROAD 

much  the  best  sort.  Mary,  whose  mission  had  not 
announced  itself,  kept  busy  and  gay  in  the  charac- 
ter of  a  pretty  girl  fond  of  one's  mother,  and  helping 
that  wise  woman  nurse  the  sick  and  unsanitated  vil- 
lagers and  coax  a  few  gifts  of  clothing  upon  their 
babies  at  the  hands  of  the  gentle,  apathetic  mothers. 
The  fourth  member  of  this  beleaguered  little  family 
could  hardly  be  admitted  to  the  social  proposition  so 
far  as  the  younger  lady  was  concerned,  and  need  not 
be  dwelt  upon.  Tom's  one  white  man,  Kelsey,  had 
his  uses ;  he  was  cheap,  but  his  habits  were  not  war- 
ranted to  keep  in  an  Oriental  climate. 

Miss  Mary  did  not  quite  fathom  her  young  host. 
He  looked  like  a  boy,  and  to  her  experience  of  alien 
folk  and  fashions,  he  seemed  as  ingenuous  as  one 
just  out  of  a  nice  old  country  home,  yet  his  position 
implied  several  forms  of  capacity  not  common  in 
boys  ;  he  had  a  certain  freezing  look  and  a  grim,  sig- 
nificant silence  that  acted  like  a  charm  upon  Kelsey's 
occasional  bursts  of "  freshness,"  and  the  natives  (the 
Gladwyns  spoke  Korean)  swore  by  his  brief  adminis- 
tration as  by  their  very  gods,  and  doubtless  under- 
stood about  as  much  of  its  mysterious  workings. 

"  I  never  see  or  find  that  who  is  so  kind  like  Mr. 
Scarth  since  I  have  known  the  foreigners,"  Pak 
would  gossip,  airing  his  punctilious  English  to  Mrs. 
Gladwyn.  "  I  am  sure  I  cannot  forget  him  my  grati- 
tude before  I  die." 

Tom's  four  years  had  been  that  steady  grind,  work- 
ing always  at  his  top  efficiency,  which  a  man  is  equal 
to  when  he  is  young.  It  is  a  good  grind  and  he  will 

52 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

remember  it  ever  afterwards  with  satisfaction,  espe- 
cially if  he  gets  little  credit  for  it  at  the  time.  He  had 
got  into  the  general  swing  of  the  work  at  Unsan,  mak- 
ing the  rounds  of  the  concession  monthly  to  measure 
up,  give  levels  —  whatever  it  is  the  man  with  the 
transit  generally  does  —  traversing  the  valley  pony- 
back,  his  house-boy  riding  on  top  of  his  master's 
stuff:  —  hard  work,  but  a  great  many  amusing  per- 
sonal luxuries  for  a  tall  young  American  supposed 
to  be  able  to  lace  his  own  boots  and  put  in  his  own 
studs  and  get  wet  if  he  forgets  his  mackintosh.  Very 
spoiled  he  will  be,  with  a  house-boy  to  pack  his 
clothes,  fetch  his  tea  before  he  knows  that  he  wants 
it,  and  watch  that  no  other  unprincipled  house-boy 
steals  from  his  own  master's  stock  of  neckties  and 
small  change.  He  had  hoped  to  leave  things  at  Wiju 
in  a  shape  that  might  praise  the  work  long  after  the 
worker  was  forgotten.  That  dream  the  war  broke  up 
—  remained,  the  journey  home  around  the  rest  of  the 
world,  to  compensate.  It  fairly  stung  in  his  blood, 
thoughts  of  a  ship's  deck  once  more,  even  a  little 
Japanese  coaster  to  Shanghai ;  the  boat  service  was 
at  sixes  and  sevens  owing  to  the  war ;  but  after  Shang- 
hai, the  P.  &  O.,  the  cities  of  the  sandaled  feet,  the 
procession  of  humanity  in  living  gestures  and  colors 
of  all  the  types  since  creation's  dawn. 

The  river  was  open  now  as  far  as  Ping  Yang,  but 
our  party  was  a  journey  of  six  days  inland.  The  date 
had  been  set  for  starting,  and  Mr.  Gladwyn  had  come 
in  to  bid  his  family  farewell.  On  this  second  visit  he 

53 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

struck  Tom  as  even  more  vague  and  inapplicable  to 
general  uses  than  memory  had  recorded  him.  How- 
ever, Mr.  Gladwyn  could  well  afford  to  spare  his 
young  compatriot's  approval ;  some  other  things  he 
seemed  to  set  aside  among  the  non-essentials  with 
equal  unconcern,  and  far  be  it  from  us  to  say  he  was 
not  right ;  —  still  it  may  have  been  embarrassing 
for  Mrs.  Gladwyn.  Tom  imagined  from  certain  evi- 
dences that  she  suffered  chagrin,  when  the  hour  of 
parting  came  and  her  good  man  simply  thanked 
him  for  his  hospitality  and  pocketed  the  rest  of  the 
obligation  as  a  matter  of  course  between  gentlemen 
and  countrymen.  Tom  naturally  would  have  pre- 
ferred it  so,  but  he  remembered  the  lady's  insistence 
and  knew  she  was  depressed. 

The  size  of  an  average  Korean  pony  makes  a  six- 
foot  American  bestriding  him  appear  as  a  monster  to 
many  —  Tom's  center-board,  as  it  were,  was  within 
three  inches  of  grounding.  Kelsey  shortened  his  stir- 
rups and  rode  with  knees  drawn  up  like  a  jockey.  The 
ladies  were  carried  in  stuffy  curtained  chairs — Mrs. 
Gladwyn' s  soft  heart  insisting  on  four  bearers  apiece 
for  a  journey  of  that  length.  The  nature  of  Korean 
inns  being  known  to  them,  they  took  their  own  bed- 
ding and  their  own  chow,  which  necessitated  a  cook. 
With  all  this  retinue  and  baggage,  white  men  armed, 
house-boys  and  chair-coolies  in  numbers  to  indicate 
deceptively  travelers  of  wealth,  they  could  not  fail  to 
attract  much  unsought  notice  on  the  road  of  war. 
For  sixty  miles  they  were  coasting  along  the  Japanese 
advance,  held  up  at  intervals  by  polite  little  officers 

54 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

who  asked  them  prettily,  "Where  did  you  going?" 
Sometimes  they  spoke  French,  and  Tom  labored 
through  amazing  idioms  sooner  than  annex  Miss 
Mary's  help ;  though  nothing  in  sedan  chairs  could 
have  escaped  that  very  thorough  military  envisage- 
ment. 

There  was  no  style  about  their  march,  to  match  the 
work  cut  out  for  these  little  soldiers  going  up  against 
white  regulars  for  the  first  time  in  history.  Their  cav- 
alry was  a  "  sight."  Large  bodies  of  sappers  and 
miners  gave  themselves  frankly  the  appearance  of  an 
army  of  truck-peddlers  pushing  their  two-wheeled 
carts ;  following  them  came  a  sort  of  flying  commis- 
sariat in  place  of  the  enormous  baggage-train  that 
forms  the  tail  of  a  European  advance.  But  if  you 
asked  one  of  those  little  cart-pushers,  "  Where  are  you 
going?"  he  answered,  fatalistically,  "To  Mukden" 
—  ironic  laughter  of  Circassians  in  the  background. 

Who  would  not  have  prophesied  an  old-fashioned 
romance  on  a  journey  such  as  this?  Tom  did  wisely, 
perhaps,  to  give  his  parents  no  room  for  speculation  : 
it  is  doubtful  if  he  could  have  convinced  his  mother, 
at  least,  how  far  his  thoughts  were  from  marriage,  as 
he  rode  by  the  side  of  Miss  Mary's  litter  like  a  knight 
of  old  (neither  did  knights  necessarily  marry  the 
ladies  they  protected  on  those  mediaeval  wanderings). 
It  had  struck  him,  however,  that  fate  would  be  remark- 
ably kind  if  these  ladies  should  happen  to  be  aboard 
ship  on  that  first  lap  of  his  long  voyage  home.  Inci- 
dentally, he  would  say  to  himself :  "  What  a  shame ! 
What  a  thousand  pities  ! " 

55 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

This,  no  doubt,  referred  to  his  one  confidential 
talk  with  Miss  Mary.  She  had  had  her  own  plans,  it 
appeared,  right  along,  and  had  been  pursuing  them 
under  her  parents'  very  noses.  And  now  she  sprung 
the  secret  upon  them,  since  the  war  had  disarranged 
their  own  plans.  It  was  her  ambition  to  train  for  a 
nurse  under  English  doctors  or  in  an  English  hos- 
pital in  Hongkong.  Hence,  we  suppose,  the  silent 
outcry  in  Tom's  mind  when  he  looked  at  that  glori- 
ous head  of  red-gold  hair  and  thought  of  the  "  plain 
distinguishing  cap."  Those  caps  are  frequently  be- 
coming, but  that  is  not  why  they  are  worn,  and  at 
Miss  Mary's  age  to  be  pretty  seems  a  right  and  nat- 
ural end  in  itself.  He  saw  the  admirable  carriage  of 
her  short  and  supple  back,  and  thought  of  it  bending 
for  hours  over  the  beds  of  pain.  Are  such  young 
spines  made  only  for  the  saddle,  the  music-bench,  the 
ball-room  ?  Why  did  he  grudge  those  grimmer  exer- 
cises only  to  youth  and  beauty?  Ask  the  patients 
if  pretty  looks  and  graceful  forms  are  wasted  in  a 
sick-room.  Ask  any  one  who  has  had  the  training  of 
girls,  if  the  stooping,  plain-featured,  charmless  ones 
are  those  only  who  keep  their  minds  on  their  work. 
It  looked  as  if  Tom  were  not  quite  unbiased  in  his 
protest,  but,  as  to  any  personal  influence  he  might 
bring  to  bear  to  save  this  bright  and  bonny  girl 
from  the  mill  which  grinds  all  flesh  alike,  no  such 
thought  occurred  to  him. 

Naturally,  on  such  a  journey,  there  could  be  few 
opportunities  for  confidential  talk,  supposing  any 
young  person  had  desired  to  acquaint  himself  with 

56 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

another's  state  of  mind  in  view  of  the  world-end  part- 
ing before  them.  Finality,  in  this  case,  might  have 
been  guarded  against,  but  not  in  any  guarded  manner 
—  not  in  Miss  Mary's  present  mood.  Her  wicked, 
worldly  pride  was  a  hard  lump  to  swallow. 

"Has  father  his  address?"  she  asked  her  mother, 
significantly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Gladwyn  tersely.  "  I 
wish  you  had  not  dragged  it  out  of  me,  Mary ;  you 
don't  have  to  know  these  things." 

"  I  do  if  you  do." 

"  I  made  the  arrangement  myself  and  I  shall  keep 
it,  give  me  time.  I  was  foolish  to  expect  father  would 
have  anything  to  spare  when  he  came  down.  In  fact, 
I  had  to  divide  with  him.  He  sees  so  much  hopeless 
suffering ;  if  a  little  money  here  and  there  can  help, 
how  can  he  hold  his  hand?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  he 's  a  lamb,  but  does  n't  he  fill  you 
with  despair,  sometimes?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Gladwyn.  "  You  are  the 
one  who  has  most  upset  my  plans.  I  shall  not  let  you 
goto  Hongkong  alone  —  don't  think  it!  We  can't 
live  there  for  what  we  could  in  Ping  Yang.  At  least 
we  can't  take  the  risks  —  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Mary.  "  And  now  I  revile  you  for 
not  paying  your  bills !  But  why  can't  we  get  the 
money  in  Ping  Yang?" 

"  I  have  my  reasons  why."  Possibly  Mary  under- 
stood :  her  father's  disposition  did  not  fit  him  for 
"team-work,"  and  he  was  unpopular  with  the  ac- 
credited heads  of  departments  because  he  liked 

57 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

not  too  many  orders  and  seldom  obeyed  them 
exactly. 

"  Then  at  Seoul  ?  Mrs.  Bruce  would  let  you  have 
it  in  a  second." 

"  I  don't  propose  to  borrow  of  my  hostess  and  my 
friend." 

"  There  are  all  sorts  of  pride ! "  said  Mary  bitterly. 

"  Leave  me  alone  till  we  get  to  Hongkong.  I  will 
borrow  it  there  in  a  businesslike  manner." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  is  going  with  us  to  Hongkong?  " 

"  I  think  so.  Poor  boy  1  how  he  would  blush  to  be 
taxed  with  his  bread  and  butter  at  this  rate." 

"  We  could  swallow  his  bread  and  butter,  but  paying 
for  house-boys  and  chair-coolies  —  that 's  too  much ! " 

"It  shall  all  be  settled  before  we  part." 

"But  wont  you  just  mention  it  meanwhile  — to 
show  we  have  n't  forgotten?" 

"  I  don't  see  the  necessity." 

"  Oh,  well !  he  '11  lay  it  to  our  being  *  missionaries ' 
—  it  won't  surprise  him  any." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  Because  Mr.  T.  L.  Scarth  does  n't  think  very  much 
of  evangelical  work  among  the  heathen,  I  fancy." 

"How  did  you  get  that  idea?" 

"  He  did  n't  force  it  on  me,  naturally:  I  gathered  it 
from  one  or  two  playful  little  tilts  we've  had." 

"  He  should  n't  be  blamed  too  much  for  his  preju- 
dices :  he  has  very  likely  listened  to  tales  about  us 
in  the  treaty  ports  —  and  many  of  them  are  only  too 
true." 

"Oh,  he  believes  in  the  likes  of  you!  —  anything 

58 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

for  their  bodies  and  minds ;  and  he  can't  see  why 
Confucian  Analects  are  not  perfectly  good  moral 
guides  for  the  average  heathen." 

"  And  they  end  with  this  world.  If  you  ask  a  Con- 
fucian about  immortality,  he  will  say :  '  When  the 
master  was  questioned  on  that,  he  answered,  "  If  you 
do  not  understand  life,  how  can  you  understand 
death  ? " '  " 

"  The  worst  he  ever  said  to  me  was  that  our  con- 
verts were  the  weak  and  the  hypocritical  and  the  self- 
seeking  ! " 

"  Did  you  remind  him  of  those  ten  thousand  Prot- 
estant and  thirty  thousand  Catholic  converts  massa- 
cred in  the  Boxer  revolution  —  who  could  have  saved 
their  lives,  most  of  them,  by  stamping  on  a  piece  of 
paper  with  Jesus  written  on  it?" 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,  I  did  not  argue  with  him  :  he  's 
too  modern  for  us." 

"  There  is  my  despair !  When  men  like  this  boy, 
—  the  best  they  can  send  out  here,  —  stainless,  up- 
right, clever,  honorable  in  every  way,  think  they  can 
afford  to  disdain  our  teaching,  —  what  can  we  hope 
of  the  heathen  ?  The  East  will  never  accept  a  cast- 
off  faith  the  West  has  outgrown ! " 

Mary  was  silent. 

"  Was  that  the  reason  why  you  are  so  bitter  about 
our  indebtedness?" 

"  Possibly,"  she  said.  "  You  have  always  accused 
me  of  sordid  pride." 

"  It  would  be  pleasanter,  certainly,  if  he  were  one 
of  ourselves  and  not  a  scoffer." 

59 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  He  is  n't  as  bad  as  that.  I  tell  you,  he  makes  an 
exception  of  us  —  of  you  ;  the  way  our  English  friends 
do  when  they  say,  '  We  never  should  have  taken  you 
for  Americans.' J1 

Mrs.  Gladwyn  barely  smiled.  "  I  have  wondered, 
sometimes,  whether  I  did  do  right :  —  two  mission- 
aries in  one  family !  Keeping  my  own  practice  might 
have  made  things  easier;  it  might  even  have  given 
us  more  to  help  with.  But  it  would  have  separated 
us  from  your  father ;  and  I  'm  not  more  than  an  aver- 
age safe  doctor  —  safe  for  Koreans  who  pull  through 
anything.  You  must  be  a  better  nurse  than  I  am  a 
doctor,  Mary.  I  ought  to  have  been  a  nurse ;  that  is 
about  my  measure." 

"Hear  her!"  said  Mary: — "as  if  she  had  n't  taught 
me  a  lot.  I  expect  to  be  taking  cases  inside  of  two 
years  —  consequence  of  your  teachments  right  along 
and  the  things  you  have  made  me  do.  Do  you  hear 
that,  old  lady  ?  I  shall  be  earning  money  myself,  and 
don't  you  worry  any  more  about  Miss  Hardinge :  that 
debt  shall  be  paid !  As  it  was  for  me,  anyhow,  what 
more  proper?" 

"  I  want  you  to  remember,  Miss  Hardinge  was 
always  beautiful  about  it.  She  said  the  girls  whose 
fathers  like  yours  were  in  better  business  than  money- 
making  were  the  girls  she  wanted  in  the  school,  and 
she  would  have  had  you  stay  as  an  honor-pupil  — 
that  was  her  nice  way  of  putting  it  —  but  the  school 
has  no  foundation  for  scholarships ;  it  would  have 
been  simply  a  gift  from  her.  No ;  it  all  came  of  my 
own  worldliness,  choosing  that  school." 

60 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  I  thought  it  was  grandma's  little  legacy." 

"  Of  course,  we  could  not  have  dreamed  of  it  with- 
out —  and  then  came  the  panic  year,  and  stocks  went 
down  — ' 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mary,  shrinking  from  this 
oft-told  tale  of  humiliation  and  mistaken  expense. 
Mrs.  Gladwyn  had  seldom  made  a  mistake  of  this 
kind,  and  it  went  hard  with  her  to  forgive  herself. 

"  Miss  Hardinge  owned  I  was  probably  right : 
poor  men's  daughters  may  be  useful  companions  for 
rich  men's,  but  the  conjunction  bears  rather  hard  on 
the  girls  who  have  to  support  the  character  of  virtu- 
ous poverty.  ...  I  never  could  understand,  though, 
about  the  girl  who  told  it  all  over  the  school  after 
she  wormed  it  out  of  you !" 

"Oh,  mother!  you've  got  that  all  wrong.  She 
did  n't  worm  it  in  the  least.  She  was  a  child  almost, 
and  I  was  very  fond  of  her.  She  found  me  crying 
and  I  was  just  upset  enough  to  tell  her  why.  She 
was  thunderstruck  :  —  a  girl,  one  of  themselves  as  it 
were,  suddenly  having  to  leave  school  because  — 
well ;  it  was  all  perfectly  natural,  anyhow,  and  I  don't 
know  how  you  ever  got  the  idea  that  I  was  hurt  by 
that!  And  she  didn't  'tell  it  all  over  the  school': 
she  told  just  one  girl  —  who  happened  to  particu- 
larly hate  that  kind  of  gossip  and,  poor  kid,  they 
made  it  hard  enough  for  her  !  " 

"  Well,  no  matter :  I  thought  it  a  miserable  inci- 
dent, and  I  supposed  she  must  have  been  one  of  the 
rich  Jews  —  they  would  naturally  have  a  scorn  of 
insolvency." 

61 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Her  people  belong  to  the  High  Tong  in  San 
Francisco ;  and,  moreover,  she  confessed  to  her 
mother,  and  that  good  lady  went  to  Miss  Hardinge 
and  offered  to  pay  my  school  bills  past  and  to  come : 
—  she  was  one  who  did  believe  in  missionaries! 
Surely  I  told  you  all  that  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  did,"  said  Mrs.  Gladwyn.  "  I  don't 
care  about  any  of  it,  if  —  when  Miss  Hardinge  is 
paid !  Then  we  '11  agree  to  forget  it." 

A  deep  color  overspread  Mary's  face.  "  Mother, 
why  were  you  so  proud  about  accepting  help  from 
her  —  if  you  can  take  it  so  calmly  from  a  perfect 
stranger  —  when  we  practically  asked  for  it?" 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do,  for  mercy's  sake?" 

"  Pay  him  at  Seoul  —  borrow  it  of  Mrs.  Bruce,  on 
your  personal  note,  if  necessary." 

"  Mrs.  Bruce  would  laugh  at  my  note  !  I  will  bor- 
row it  of  a  bank  in  the  only  proper  way." 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear,"  said  Mary,  "that  we  've  got 
money  at  interest  in  Hongkong !  " 

"  Leave  that  to  me,  if  you  please !  .  .  .  Child,  what 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

Mary  sat  up  closer  to  her  mother  and  grasped  one 
of  her  hands ;  their  backs  hid  the  gesture.  "  Now 
you  know  why  I  can't  —  can't  follow  in  the  footsteps 
of  my  blessed  parents.  I  've  just  got  to  be  sordid 
and  take  my  pay  !" 

"  I  have  guessed  it  for  a  long  time,  dear  ;  that 's 
why  I  wanted  you  to  see  just  what  a  nurse's  life  de- 
mands. And  I  wanted  to  test  your  strength  under 
my  own  eyes.  But  now  I  am  not  sorry  I  dragged 

62 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

you  through  the  operating-room  drill,  and  made  you 
cook  for  my  sick,  and  change  their  bandages.  You 
won't  stop  long  in  the  first  stage  of  your  work.  — 
But —  don't  sit  that  way,  please! " 

They  were  resting  after  a  wayside  meal ;  Mary, 
cramped  from  long  hours  in  a  swaying  chair,  had 
stretched  her  feet  out  comfortably  before  her.  Mrs. 
Gladwyn,  who  performed  surgical  operations,  could 
not  accustom  herself  (these  things  being  all  a  matter 
of  early  training)  to  the  casual  exhibition  of  a  young 
woman's  ankles ;  Mary  laughed  at  her  and  she 
laughed  at  herself  in  Mary's  eyes.  Her  smile  re- 
mained when  Tom  strolled  up,  smiling  too,  —  the 
guilty  grin  of  one  who  turns  a  camera  upon  a  friend. 

Mary  buried  her  nose  in  her  teacup  and  defied 
him,  —  not  that  her  nose  was  a  perilous  feature  ;  but 
Mrs.  Gladwyn,  who  had  a  nose  if  you  like,  faced 
him  with  middle-aged  hardihood,  smile  and  all,  and 
Tom  incontinently  took  her.  He  repented  the  deed 
long  after,  when  his  mother,  inspecting  the  print, 
remarked  dryly,  "  I  thought  you  said  Mrs.  Gladwyn 
was  a  lady !  " 

Certainly  it  looked  as  if  they  had  buried  the  ghosts 
of  past  humiliations  or  drowned  them  in  those  gypsy 
cups  of  tea.  Mrs.  Gladwyn  packed  her  teapot  in  its 
wadded  wicker  basket,  Mary  washed  the  handleless 
Korean  bowls.  Eating  out  of  brass  sounds  unappetiz- 
ing, but  they  were  used  to  it ;  the  country  held  no  sur- 
prises for  them.  They  had  worn  off  its  shocks  and  its 
fascination  as  well :  even  the  extraordinary  pageant, 
which  accompanied  them  hour  after  hour,  of  the 

63 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Japanese  army  in  extended  profile  draping  the  mid- 
dle distance,  drew  but  an  occasional  over-shoulder 
glance  while  they  reckoned  journey  expenses  and 
discussed  their  own  teasing  personalities  ;  nor  would 
they  be  more  excited  at  nightfall  when  by  main 
strength  of  their  combined  escort  they  were  pushed 
through  the  crowded  gateway  of  some  little  old 
walled  town  swarming  with  chattering  natives  ra- 
cially clad,  or  Japanese  soldiers,  looking  more  racial 
still  in  French  fatigue  caps  and  American  shoes. 

That  which  had  first  struck  Tom  about  these  ladies 
was  their  homely  likeness  to  all  the  nicest  women  he 
had  known ;  not  the  smartest,  yet  Mary  was  smart. 
To  those  who  have  an  eye  and  an  ear,  a  bird  of  the  air 
may  carry  the  matter.  The  obvious  thing  about  Miss 
Mary  was  not  her  speaking  acquaintance  with  three 
Chinese  dialects,  but  the  charming  way  she  did  her 
hair.  Because  life  for  her  was  real  and  earnest,  she 
travailed  for  dainty  lingerie,  and  while  fitting  herself 
to  walk  the  chambers  of  life  and  death,  she  preferred 
to  do  it  agreeably  shod.  You  cannot  make  your  own 
shoes  as  you  can  your  some  other  things ;  —  occasion- 
ally she  spent  money  on  her  pretty  pettitoes  which 
should  have  gone,  we  fear,  into  the  treasury  of  the 
Lord,  saying  she  would  save  it  somewhere  else, 
which,  no  doubt,  she  did,  for  she  had  a  head  quite 
equal  to  it. 

There  were  so  many  things  about  her  which  tan- 
talized Tom  on  his  home-making  side,  that  more 
than  once  he  asked  himself,  as  the  journey  drew  to- 
ward a  close,  were  there  not  opportunities  here  a 

64 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

man  might  think  of  and  regret  when  it  was  too 
late? 

"  If  I  were  to  come  back,"  — his  thoughts  ran  ahead 
into  one  of  many  futures  on  the  different  roads  a 
man  may  choose,  while  his  choice  is  still  his  own,  — 
"  what  a  life  we  could  make  of  it  together ! "  —  A  girl 
so  home-like,  so  home-trained,  yet  a  rover  with  gypsy 
eyes  and  wide  horizons  in  her  ken.  "  She  knows  the 
East  —  the  '  monstrous,  shambling '  East  —  and  she 
is  the  West.  We  'd  get  on  grandly  at  Wiju."  —  Poor 
little  Wiju  !  How  that  place  haunts  a  boy  which  has 
owned  his  first  authority,  taken  the  impress,  however 
transitory,  of  his  young  creative  hand. 

He  did  not  swear  to  his  pillow  nightly  that  not 
another  sun  should  set  ere  she  had  listened  to  his 
tale.  He  was  not  sure  that  he  had  any  tale  to  tell. 
But,  if  it  should  "  work  out  that  way,"  it  were  more 
likely  to  "  come  off  "  on  shipboard.  Three  days  to 
Shanghai  and  a  day  more  to  wait  in  that  city  of  dev- 
ildom, as  seen  from  the  Bubbling-Well  Road.  He 
gazed  at  the  cold  young  April  moon  and  cast  up  her 
changes :  she  would  be  in  her  third  quarter  at  Seoul 
and  sailing  at  the  full  over  the  Yellow  Sea. 

Did  he  wish  to  go  home  an  engaged  man?  At 
least  he  was  ready  to  toy  with  the  possibility : 
whether  it  would  ever  be  anything  more  might  de- 
pend at  this  stage  on  how  Miss  Mary  looked  at  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  MUST  it  be  a  black  dress  for  your  mother?  Is  she 
wearing  black?" 

"No,"  said  Tom;  "but  if  it's  black,  you  know, 
she  can't  give  it  to  Engracia." 

"  I  see."  Mary  grasped  the  idea,  beaming ;  she  was 
by  way  of  knowing  that  kind  of  mother  herself.  They 
were  walking  the  windy  streets  of  Seoul  in  and  out 
of  native  shops,  choosing  Tom's  gifts  for  home.  He 
had  asked  her  assistance  in  this  errand,  but  it  was 
not  that  only  which  gave  them  a  sudden  sense  of 
intimacy  fraught  with  the  delicate  pain  of  parting. 

"  Is  your  mother  an  out-of-doorsy  mother?"  Mary 
asked. 

"  Oh,  very.  She  goes  about  everywhere  with  the 
old  man." 

"  The  '  pater '  ?  "  She  played  her  English  against 
his  colloquial  American. 

"  Yes ;  he  and  the  *  mater '  ride  all  over  the  shop." 

"  Does  she  take  great  care  of  her  complexion  ?  " 

Tom  stared  and  laughed  :  "  Oh,  dear,  no  !  I  never 
saw  any  signs  of  it." 

"  Then  it  cannot  be  black,"  said  Mary,  "  if  I  know 
the  sun  of  California.  Now,  let  us  think  a  bit."  They 
were  looking  at  embroidered  crepes  and  chiffons,  and 
Mary  held  up  one  of  the  latter  lovingly,  but  Tom  in- 
clined to  the  richer,  more  substantial  stuffs. 

66 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Suppose  we  don't  get  a  white  for  your  sister  ? 
What  is  the  color  of  her  eyes  ?  " 

"  Blue,"  said  Tom. 

"  But  what  do  you  call  blue  —  like  yours,  for  in- 
stance?" The  little  Korean  salesman  who  watched 
them  suddenly  lowered  his  own  eyes. 

"  Has  she  much  color  ?  —  is  she  fair  ?  "  Mary  gained 
in  color  herself  as  she  passed  on  hurriedly. 

"  She  comes  home  fair  after  a  winter  in  New  York, 
but  she  gets  bravely  over  it  before  she  goes  back 
again." 

"  Here  is  a  blue :  —  would  n't  that  go  with  your 
sister's  eyes?" 

"  Would  you  call  that  blue? " 

"It's  the  blue  that  makes  blue  eyes — what  you 
call  blue  eyes — look  really  blue.  These  people  know." 

"  Not  much  about  blue  eyes."  Tom  smiled  at  her 
subtleties. 

"  Well,  if  you  think  that  fixes  your  sister,  —  it  must 
be  made  with  just  a  touch  of  red  —  perhaps  a  dark  red 
rose  tucked  in  somewhere,  but  she  will  know  all  about 
that,  —  then  we  can  choose  a  white  for  your  mother." 

"  White  ! "  Tom  echoed  helplessly. 

"  She  does  wear  white  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  at  home  ;  but  I  can't  remember  her  in 
a  white  dress  in  San  Francisco.  I  'm  sure  she  'd  give 
it  to  Engracia." 

Mary  turned  over  the  crepes  again  in  silence. 
"  Look ;  here  is  a  white  like  old  churned  foam  ;  my 
own  mother  could  wear  that,  and  she  's  no  swan.  It 
will  go  in  a  suitcase  and  shake  out  without  a  mark  ; 

67 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

and  for  less  than  you  could  dream  you  might  get  her 
the  most  adorable  scarf  to  soften  those  dressmaker 
lines  —  " 

Tom  stood  bewildered,  smiling,  and  Mary  waived 
the  decision  with  a  word  to  the  shopman :  the  two 
dress-patterns  were  laid  aside. 

"  Now,  if  you  want  to  be  reckless,  get  your  mother 
one  of  these  black  embroidered  chiffons  ;  she  can  put 
mauve  or  white  under  it,  and  if  she  is  anything  like 
my  mother  she  won't  want  another  dinner-dress  for 
six  years." 

Tom  agreed  that  sounded  very  like  his  mother ; 
but,  he  added,  "  I  want  that  for  Cousin  Anna." 

''Cousin  Anna?"  Mary  put  one  finger  to  her 
brow :  "  How  many  more  ladies  are  we  shopping 
for?  I  mustn't  get  them  mixed." 

Tom  laughed,  and  the  gentle  little  salesman  smiled 
in  sympathy,  though  he  was  much  depressed  by 
Mary's  acquaintance  with  all  things  Korean,  espe- 
cially prices. 

"  Cousin  Anna  Ludwell,"  Tom  explained  simply. 

"Of  San  Francisco?" 

"Very  much  so.  Father's  cousins.  Great  people 
for  doing  things." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  after  another  silence ;  "  I  should 
think  that  might  do  for" — she  paused  —  "look  at 
this  embroidery,  all  by  hand,  and  yards  and  yards 
of  flouncing  —  hemstitched;  of  course,  no  one  uses 
flouncing,  but  there  are  ways  of  working  it  in." 

"  Cousin  Anna  would  n't  look  very  closely  at  the 
flouncing :  she  gets  the  idea  —  " 

68 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Which  sounds,"  said  Mary  with  a  peculiar  little 
tired  drawl,  "as  if  your  cousin  must  be  very  nice  and 
very  fond  of  you." 

"  You  are  certainly  right  about  her :  at  least,  I  've 
never  seen  anything  nicer  than  Cousin  Anna." 

"  Have  they  a  daughter  who  used  to  go  to  Miss 
Hardinge's?" 

"  They  have  a  daughter,  Clare.  I  don't  know  where 
she  went  to  school." 

"  There  was  a  Clare  Ludwell  —  one  of  the  younger 
girls  —  a  day-pupil  at  Miss  Hardinge's  when  I  was 
there  four  years  ago." 

"  Were  you  ?  "  Tom  passed  over  the  negligible 
clause.  "  I  had  no  idea  you  knew  San  Francisco." 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't :  I  only  knew  the  school,  and  I  saw 
a  few  San  Francisco  girls." 

"  How  long  were  you  there?" 

Mary  colored.  "It's  absurd  for  me  to  talk  to  you 
about  your  San  Francisco  :  any  one  can  see  how  you 
love  it." 

"  I  did  n't  love  it  when  I  left  there  ;  it  rather  grows 
on  you." 

"  Well ;  San  Francisco  has  never  grown  on  me 
much." 

"  Then  I  should  say  you  did  not  know  it.  It  is  a 
haunting  city  when  you  have  once  hit  the  spell ;  it 
'  calls  '  you,  as  they  say  of  the  East." 

"  Goodness ! "  said  Mary  with  open  scorn  for  his 
comparison;  "you  must  have  'hit'  some  spell  very 
hard,  in  that  hardest  city  I  have  ever  known ! " 

It  was  Tom  who  colored  this  time :  "  I  see  we  must 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

agree  to  differ  about  San  Francisco,  for  the  present 
I  'd  like  most  awfully  to  meet  you  there  some  day, 
and  convert  you." 

"  I  'm  in  no  hurry  for  that  day  ! "  said  Mary  tartly. 
"  It  would  be  too  absurd,"  she  spoke  up  again,  con- 
trolling her  flash  of  temper,  "  for  us  to  quarrel  about 
a  city  neither  of  us  belongs  to,  and  one  of  us  will 
never  see  again,  it  is  n't  likely." 

"Two  negatives?  you  will  see  it  again  —  that  is 
my  prophecy." 

"  Any  old  prophecy  will  do  in  my  case,"  said  Mary 
languidly. 

The  little  brown  salesman  took  in  the  foreign  situa- 
tion discreetly,  and  busied  his  slender  hands  refold- 
ing his  stuffs.  Mary  checked  him. 

"  Shall  it  be  the  sea -foam  white,  then,  for  your 
mother  —  or  must  we  agree  to  disagree  in  every- 
thing?" 

"  Anything  you  say  goes,"  Tom  answered  simply. 

She  had  thought  that  she  could  not  get  over  the 
choke  of  his  bread-and-butter  in  her  throat,  but  as 
they  walked  homeward  in  silence,  she  was  sensible 
of  a  harder  lump  to  swallow.  What  horrid  behavior 
she  had  shown ;  how  incredibly  silly  and  bad-tem- 
pered he  must  think  her.  Was  she  actually  jealous 
of  this,  boy's  home  past  with  its  attachments  and 
preferences  made  before  he  ever  saw  her?  An  old 
homesickness  of  her  own  awoke  for  which  there  was 
no  cure.  She  might  call  herself  an  American  —  as  a 
fact  she  had  no  country  and  no  home.  This  young 
man  had  kept  himself  remarkably  to  himself,  which 

70 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

did  not  mean  necessarily  that  he  had  been  a  blank 
page  before  he  came  to  quaint,  outlandish  Korea  and 
met  these  missionary  Gladwyns.  As  to  his  favors, 
thank  goodness,  they  were  able  to  make  some  return  : 
first,  through  the  hospitality  of  old  friends  who  had 
snatched  them  on  their  far-heralded  arrival  at  Seoul, 
a  charming  English  couple  who  made  them  free  of 
their  house,  which  was  a  house  well  worth  visiting 
for  its  own  sake. 

It  stood  in  the  old  quarter,  close  to  the  city  wall. 
A  garden,  exotic  England,  cast  its  wonderful  ivies 
over  a  section  of  this  wall  and  draped  the  carved- 
stone  seat  beneath ;  masses  were  cut  away  yearly 
because  of  dampness,  but  new  sprays  were  always 
fingering  the  ancient  carvings ;  monstrous  symbolic 
heads  thrust  forth  and  peered  down  the  long,  espa- 
liered  walk  that  divided  the  garden.  Inside,  there 
were  no  traveler's  poses :  you  sat  on  cushions  on  the 
matted  floors  if  you  preferred,  but  there  were  chairs 
and  lounges  ;  you  could  smoke  "  Egyptian  Deities  "  or 
"Bull  Durham"  or  a  slender  Korean  pipe  holding  a 
thimbleful,  and  preciously  inlaid  with  silver,  and  you 
had  your  tub  at  any  hour  and  plenty  of  hot  water. 
There  were  no  young  people.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bruce 
adored  Mary.  The  mothers  exchanged  one  look  and 
the  tall,  silent  young  American,  with  a  boyish  absence 
of  manner  but  a  look  of  power,  was  asked  to  dinner, 
and  to  tiffin  next  day,  previous  to  an  afternoon's 
shopping. 

It  gratified  Mary,  on  their  speechless  homeward 
stroll,  to  reflect  on  the  bargains  she  had  secured  for 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

her  trusting  companion.  I  am  not  sure  but  she  may 
have  saved  him  the  better  part  of  that  wretched  board- 
bill  outright,  for  he  would  have  been  an  easy  mark. 
Her  few  words  in  fluent  Korean  caused  prices  to 
tumble  in  a  manner  mournful  for  little  brown  sales- 
men, who  had  seen  them  enter  with  high  hopes. 

How  fondly  it  adds  to  the  value  of  an  experience 
when  we  think  of  it  as  past  and  gone.  Home  affairs 
absorbed  Tom  immediately  upon  his  return,  and  those 
who  would  have  been  his  delighted  listeners  and 
have  drawn  him  out,  were  deep  with  him  in  matters 
closer  to  the  family  life  than  this  alien  chapter;  it 
remained  peculiarly  his  own  and  gained  a  touch  of 
melancholy  from  that  sense  of  lost  values  imperfectly 
felt  at  the  time.  Thousands  of  miles  from  Seoul  and 
its  chill  April  sunsets,  he  would  see  that  English  gar- 
den inside  the  Mongol  wall ;  smell  the  damp  of  its 
winter  ivies  mingled  with  the  scent  of  sprouting  box 
and  the  night  incense  of  humanity  in  an  old  Asiatic 
town. 

There  was  no  one  to  tea  but  themselves,  and  they 
had  it  in  the  garden.  When  the  smart  house-boy,  in 
long  blue  coat  and  trousers  reefed  at  the  ankles,  had 
taken  his  tray  and  left  them,  they  stood  up  on  the 
seat  to  see  out  over  the  wall  toward  the  Peking  road 
where  it  runs  straight  into  the  north  :  the  old  ambas- 
sadors' highway  when  Korea  paid  tribute  to  China's 
emperors  hundreds  of  dark  decades  before  the  Manchu 
dynasties.  A  memorial  arch  spans  the  road  at  this 
entrance,  commemorating  the  virtues  of  some  good 

72 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

and  learned  man  who  remembered  the  poor,  several 
dozen  centuries  before  the  restless  race  arose  which 
sent  these  young  barbarians  hither. 

They  planted  their  elbows  in  the  ivy  and  gazed 
before  them  long  in  silence.  Tom  took  a  paper  from 
his  notebook  and  spread  it  under  Mary's  eyes. 

"  A  cable  —  from  —  ?  " 

"  Home,"  said  Tom.  "  I  found  it  at  the  consul's  — 
delayed,  of  course." 

His  manner  was  singularly  quiet,  but  Mary  was 
not  deceived.  "  He  must  have  had  this  on  his  mind 
all  the  while  we  were  spatting  about  San  Francisco ; 
—  and  I  thought  he  was  annoyed  I" 

"  Position  here  if  you  want  it  come  soon,"  the  mes- 
sage read. 

"  *  Position '  ?   Does  that  mean  anything  official  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  —  plain  job,"  said  Tom.  "  '  If  you  want 
it,  come  soon,'  or,  '  Position  here  if  you  want  it. 
Come  soon ! '  There  are  two  ways  of  reading  it, 
don't  you  think?" 

"  Quite  so.  The  last  sounds  more  imperative. 
That  is  what  you  meant,  is  n't  it?" 

"  It  is  like  my  father  to  say,  *  If  you  want  it,  come 
soon' ;  it  is  more  like  mother  to  say,  'Come  soon !" 

Neither  spoke  again  for  some  seconds  while  they 
studied  the  paper  together. 

"  Could  there  be  any  reason  that  you  do  not  know 
of  for  saying,  '  Come  soon '  ?  —  any  other  reason 
than  '  plain  job '  ?"  —  Mary  was  smiling  at  him,  but 
with  effort.  The  wind  doubled  up  the  paper  between 
them  and  she  spread  it  down  and  kept  a  finger  on  it. 

73 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Yes,  two  reasons,"  Tom  answered.  "Allen  says 
our  papers  at  home  have  been  faking  up  dispatches 
on  a  hectic  key  :  that  would  worry  mother." 

The  second  reason,  Mary  noticed,  he  withheld.  It 
rested  on  one  sentence  in  his  mother's  last  letter,  to 
which  he  would  have  attached  more  importance  had 
he  not  perceived  by  its  general  tone  that  the  letter 
had  been  written  under  high  nerve-pressure.  The 
words  referred  to  his  father's  health. 

"Don't  you  want  to  spare  me  a  little  advice? 
Where  would  you  put  the  period  in  that  dispatch, 
if  you  were  in  my  place?" 

"  But  I  know  so  very  little  what  I  should  be  talk- 
ing about  —  not  knowing  your  place,"  said  Mary. 
"  Our  places,  I  fancy,  are  very  different." 

"That's  an  evasion,  not  an  answer.  You  see,  I 
want  this  journey  to  go  on  just  as  it  began  —  and 
here  comes  this  message  which  may  be  meant  to 
stop  me  —  and  yet  it  may  not.  I  want  my  own  way 
so  much,  honestly,  I  'm  afraid  to  decide." 

"  If  you  are  afraid,  what  should  I  be !  "  He  waited 
persistently.  —  "  Would  it  make  so  much  difference 
in  time  —  you  aren't  going  to  stop  anywhere?" 

"  No ;  but  it  would  mean  two  months'  delay.  My 
impression  is  they  don't  wish  to  urge  me,  either 
way." 

"  Still,  there  might  be  those  reasons  —  why  you 
should  lose  no  time?"  Again  a  pause:  Mary  drew 
up  her  neck-piece  of  monkey-fur ;  he  noticed  the 
whiteness  of  her  cheek  against  it,  and  the  glistening 
edges  of  her  hair  where  it  was  swept  up  into  a  bronze 

74 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

knot  under  her  hat-brim.  "  If  you  went  back  the 
shortest  way,  how  would  you  go?  There  is  hardly 
ever  a  boat  now,  to  anywhere  you  want  to  go 
quickly." 

"  The  first  little  hooker  to  Nagasaki,  and  the  first 
Pacific  Mail — anything  to  San  Francisco." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  start  at  once  —  doesn't  it 
'call'  you?" 

"  My  people  call  me,"  he  answered.  "  Other  things 
call  the  other  way." 

" Those  other  things  can  wait,  can't  they?" 

"  Nothing  waits ;  or  if  it  does,  it  is  n't  the  same." 

"I  am  sure  the  real  things  are  always  worth 
waiting  for  and  they  do  not  change ;  but  we  may 
change — " 

"  I  don't  see  but  it  conies  to  the  same  thing,"  said 
Tom. 

"  So ;  you  think  you  may  not  come  back  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  it 's  time  I  settled  to  something, 
here  or  there." 

"  It  does  n't  look  as  if  anything  could  be  settled 
here  very  soon:  *  plain  job'  may  mean  more  than  it 
sounds." 

"  It  is  n't  the  job,"  said  Tom.  Again  she  had  an  in- 
tuition of  something  held  back  which  depressed  him 
and  vaguely  shadowed  their  counsels.  "  From  what 
you  say,  and  don't  say,  I  infer  you  think  I  ought  to 
go  — do  you,  Mary?" 

He  gave  her  name  its  full  value,  in  his  altered 
tones.  She  gasped  and  steadied  her  voice  to  answer. 
Something  seemed  to  blind  her,  but  she  took  the 

75 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

pencil  from  him  and  placed  her  periods  firmly  :  — • 
"  '  Come  soon?  "  she  underscored. 

He  straightened  up  slowly  and  took  his  elbows 
from  the  ivy,  and  looked  off  where  the  road  runs  into 
the  cold,  gray  north. 

"  I  don't  know; — indeed,  I  don't  know,"  he  heard 
her  relenting  murmur. 

"  Will  you  let  me  write  to  you?" 
"Yes,  if  you  don't  promise  to  write." 
"  I  wish  you  would  promise  to  answer." 
"  Had  n't  we  better  leave  something  to  the  way 
we  may  happen  to  feel  ?   I  have  lived  long  enough 
in  the  East  to  be  a  fatalist  in  some  things."  As  if  to 
give  point  to  the  statement,  lo,  footsteps  were  upon 
them :  Mary's  mother  and  her  hostess  in  street  attire, 
followed  by  the  house-boy  with  more  tea. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MR.  BRUCE  and  Mary  were  playing  mild  billiards  in 
a  room  off  the  court,  chiefly  screens  :  a  stout  gentle- 
man in  white  and  a  slim,  bright-headed  girl  in  sal- 
low pink ;  the  Orient  knows  a  pink  which  red-haired 
girls  can  wear.  A  white  camellia  in  the  bosom  of  her 
dress  threatened  to  fall  as  she  poised  her  cue. 

Upstairs,  Mrs.  Bruce  and  Mrs.  Gladwyn  had  the 
drawing-room  to  themselves. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  an  intimate  question,"  said 
the  former.  She  had  some  knitting  in  her  hands  and 
laid  it  down.  "  Are  Mary's  affections  engaged  at  the 
present  time,  do  you  know  ?  " 

Mrs.  Gladwyn  laughed  aloud  without  pretending 
to  answer. 

"  Do  you  find  my  question  too  intimate?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bruce  imperturbably. 

"  Not  for  you  and  me,  but  I  should  hardly  expect 
to  be  as  intimate  as  that  with  Mary." 

"  I  see  you  are  not  prepared  to  say  *  no,'  "  her  friend 
persisted.  "  That  is  precisely  my  own  conclusion." 

"  What  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  my  dear  Elinor? 
Have  you  concluded  she  is  in  love  with  that  young 
engineer  ?  " 

"  The  question  may  be,  what  will  Mary  conclude. 
To  me  it  looked  as  if  matters  had  reached  a  very 
pretty  crisis  this  evening  in  the  garden." 

77 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  would  you  propose  to  have 
me  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  Tell  me,  seriously,  woman,  —  what  do  you  think? 
If  I  am  a  reader  of  situations,  I  should  say  we  inter- 
rupted a  declaration  in  the  garden." 

"  If  we  did,"  Mrs.  Gladwyn  rejoined,  "it  will  prob- 
ably come  on  again  —  unless  it  was  an  accident ;  in 
that  case  our  interruption  may  have  been  very  well 
timed." 

"  That  is  more  philosophy  than  should  be  required 
of  a  mother  —  the  mother  of  a  Mary  who  is  going  to 
be  a  nurse.  I  don't  think  at  all  well  of  that  plan, 
Susan  Gladwyn.  Mary  should  marry.  You  know  how 
youth  goes  when  they  take  up  that  life :  ten  years 
will  age  our  Mary  sadly." 

"  Mary  does  not  look  upon  the  life  as  you  do  ;  she 
feels,  on  the  other  hand,  quite  selfish,  preparing  to 
nurse  people  as  a  *  gainful  occupation.'  The  poor 
child  wants  to  pay  her  debts.  She  is  scorched  very 
deep  with  that  iron." 

Mrs.  Bruce  smiled  understandingly  and  patted  her 
friend's  hand.  She  sat  awhile,  making  tracings  with 
an  ivory  needle  on  her  satin-flowered  lap. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Susan.  It  will  em- 
barrass us  both  a  little,  but  we  should  be  able  to 
bear  it  for  Mary's  sake.  I  want  her  to  know  there  is 
no  such  pressure  about  this '  living.'  Her  name  stands 
in  my  will  for  something  like  two  hundred  pounds  a 
year." 

"  Elinor  Bruce,  what  made  you  ! " 

"  Come  ;  you  need  n't  blush  so  :  it 's  no  great  sum. 

78 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

But  to  know  it  is  there  might  save  this  hunted  feel- 
ing ;  and  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  be  separated, 
unless  by  something  more  in  keeping  with  a  woman's 
personal  destiny  than  spending  her  life  in  sick-rooms. 
- — Now,  of  course  you  will  say,  Mary  can't  spend 
her  life  waiting  for  dead  people's  shoes  either.  I  'm 
aot  afraid  that  you  'd  wish  to  hurry  me  off  the  scene 
• — in  fact,  I  have  a  better  plan  than  dying.  Do  let 
me  fund  this  little  sum  in  her  name  —  now,  while  it 
might  substantially  influence  her  whole  future  I  Young 
men  just  starting  in  a  profession  can't  ask  penniless 
girls  to  marry  them  ;  a  modest  boy,  as  this  one  seems, 
would  not  ask  a  girl  to  take  his  promise  and  wait  for 
him  indefinite  years.  What  little  I  am  giving  her  I 
should  never  miss,  and  it  might  mean  thrice  as  much 
to  her  now  as  twenty  years  from  now  ;  —  I  am  liable 
to  move  on  very  slowly." 

"  You  should  not  have  done  this,  Elinor :  we  are 
such  a  very  side-issue  —  I  can't  see  what  we  should 
be  doing  in  your  will." 

"  I  think  you  must  allow  me  to  make  my  own  will. 
Mary  is  only  a  very  small-sized  legatee.  My  money 
is  not  family  money  either ;  I  do  not  blush  to  say,  it 
was  made  in  trade.  You  may  remember  an  old  joke 
in  '  Punch '  of  our  beloved  Du  Maurier's :  A  lady 
(whom  I  trust  I  do  not  too  much  resemble)  explains 
to  Mr.  Grigsby  that  her  husband,  although  in  busi- 
ness, is  in  the  coffee  business,  and  '  they  are  all  gen- 
tlemen in  the  coffee  business.'  My  coffee  money  did 
not  come  by  the  road  of  the  generations  and  I  am 
not  bound  to  pass  it  on  that  way.  I  was  not  granted 

79 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

children  —  I  may  pluck  a  flower  from  any  genera- 
tion I  choose.  Mary  is  my  flower.  Now,  let  me  please 
myself,  you  proud  woman.  Give  up  this  wild  Hong- 
kong scheme  and  go  back  to  California,  both  of  you, 
and  rest  in  your  Golden  Gates,  and  let  this  nursing 
wait." 

" — Till  we  see  what  may  happen  on  the  boat 
going  home !  You,  of  course,  have  decided  that  Mr. 
Scarth  shall  go  with  us? — I  can  imagine  you  going 
still  further,  Elinor.' ' 

"  Quite  so,"  her  friend  replied  calmly.  "  I  certainly 
should  not  fail  to  have  the  young  man  undeceived 
as  to  Mary's  circumstances,  in  the  proper  manner, 
by  the  right  person,  naturally." 

"  I  wonder  what  you  mean  by  *  naturally '  ?  You 
are  a  very  dangerous  good  fairy :  —  keep  away  from 
the  cradle  of  my  daughter's  affections.  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  are  born  —  still  less  named.  If  they  are,  it 
is  Mary's  own  private  christening.  You  and  I  have 
not  been  asked.  But  when  it  is  I  speaking  to  you, 
about  what  you  have  done  for  my  child  —  can  you 
doubt  what  I  must  feel  ?  —  If  we  have  not  witched  it 
out  of  you  somehow  ?  " 

"Mary  has,  but  you  have  no  spells  for  me — ex- 
cept once :  — now  I  shall  tease  you,  my  doctor-lady  ! 
you  know  that  was  black  magic ! " 

"  It  was  your  constitution  ;  —  and  you  paid  your 
docj:or-lady,  so  don't  thrust  a  case  of  natural  recov- 
ery into  our  otherwise  uncorrupted  friendship." 

"  —  While  you  thrust  everything  back  on  me  I 
Won't  you  even  let  Mary  know  that  she  need  not 

80 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

waste  the  flower  of  her  youth  providing  for  old 
age?" 

"It  is  not  mine  to  say  what  shall  or  shall  not  be 
told  —  and  yet,  last  wills  and  testaments  of  those  we 
love  are  sacred  things.  Mary  would  shrink  from 
peeping  into  yours  for  the  sake  of  seeing  her  own 
name  there." 

"  Life  is  a  sacred  thing,  and  the  hopes  of  youth, 
and  happiness.  .  .  .  So,"  said  the  cheated  benefac- 
tor, "  I  have  paraded  in  my  grave-clothes  for  nothing. 
I  shall  hang  on  forever  and  see  my  flower  fade  —  all 
because  of  a  ruthless  mother.  Well,  you  two  have 
less  common  sense  in  proportion  to  your  alleged 
brains  than  any  Americans  I  ever  have  heard  of." 

"  And  why  Americans  ?  " 

"  I  speak  of  the  only  type  of  American  I  consider 
genuine  —  " 

"  Because  repulsive  ?  Oh,  narrow,  narrow !  " 

Mary  at  that  moment  rejoined  them,  strolling  into 
the  room.  The  older  women  were  drawn  up  in  front 
of  a  miserly  fire  in  an  English  grate.  Mary  took  the 
fender-stool  and  leaned  against  her  mother's  knee. 
Mrs.  Bruce  plucked  one  of  the  numerous  scarfs  she 
had  a  way  of  leaving  on  the  backs  of  chairs,  and  cast 
it  in  a  wad  at  Mary,  who  shook  out  its  spangled 
length  and  wound  herself  in  it. 

"  How  adorable  young  arms  are  through  that 
Egyptian  gauze,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bruce  with  fond  eyes 
fixed  on  Mary  mournfully.  "  And  to  think  of  con- 
signing her  for  life  to  starched  uniforms ! " 

"  How  paltry  we  are,  dear  Lady  Brucey,"  Mary 

81 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

smiled  back  at  her.  "What  were  you  and  mamma  so 
heated  about  when  I  came  in  just  now  ?  " 

"  As  usual,  your  countrywomen." 

"  The  kind  who  shake  your  insular  prejudices  ?  " 

"  The  kind  who  explain  them.  —  I  am  very  sure  I 
could  manage  better  with  the  true  type  who  jump  at 
all  they  can  get  without  any  bones  about  it." 

"  Have  you  seen  any  Americans  around  here 
lately  who  don't?"  asked  Mary  suspiciously.  The 
answer  was  a  double  laugh  and  a  glance  from  Mrs. 
Gladwyn  at  her  friend,  who  waived  the  warning 
cheerfully. 

"  Mary,  I  hope  you  are  not  as  proud  as  your 
mother,  my  dear." 

"  My  mother  proud  ?"  said  Mary.  "  Mamma  is  not 
proud ;  she  admits  it.  That  part  of  her,  she  claims, 
was  crucified  in  a  good  cause,  years  ago." 

"  Give  me  some  proof  —  any  proof  that  your 
mother  is  not  the  most  obstinately  proud  woman 
who  ever  sacrificed  a  child  to  that  vanity  of  vanities 
in  mothers." 

"  I  take  you  up  on  that,  Lady  Brucey,"  Mary  said, 
while  the  others  laughed  with  an  air  of  mutual  under- 
standing. She  squared  around  on  her  stool  and  ex- 
hibited her  parent  with  a  fine  wave  of  her  arm. 
"  There  she  is,  ma'am  ;  the  whole  world  could  tread 
on  her.  I  dare  mamma  this  moment  to  prove  she  has 
a  particle  of  pride  about  her !  If  she  had,  she  'd  ask 
Lady  Brucey  for  the  loan  of  thirty  guineas." 

"Mary!"  screamed  Mrs.  Gladwyn. 

"  Mamma,  Mr.  Scarth  does  not  go  with  us  to  Hong- 

82 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

kong.  He  starts  for  home  to-morrow.  Shall  he  go — ? 
You  know  what  I  mean !  " 

"  Mary  means,"  said  Mrs.  Gladwyn,  throwing  away 
everything  in  defence  of  Mary's  sanity  at  the  moment, 
"  that  we  have  not  discharged  a  debt  we  owe  him,  on 
an  arrangement  proposed  by  me.  It 's  an  awkward 
fact  which  I  think  we  might  have  kept  to  our- 
selves." 

"  It  may  not  interest  dear  Lady  Brucey,  but  I  think 
it  ought  to  begin  to  interest  us." 

"  I  told  you  I  should  attend  to  it." 

"  Well,  dear ;  have  you  the  money  by  you  ?  He 
goes  to-morrow." 

"  The  money  will  be  sent  him  before  the  summer 
is  over." 

"  Does  n't  it  occur  to  you  he  may  want  it  now  ?" 
Mary  sighed  desperately  —  "  Mrs.  Bruce,  she  is  n't 
proud,  or  she  would  n't  keep  a  young  man  out  of  his 
money  who  can't  ask  it  of  women  and  —  mission- 
aries !  There  ;  I  've  insulted  both  my  parents  and  now 
I  think  I  'd  better  go  to  bed ! " 

The  women  exchanged  looks  when  Mary's  back 
was  turned.  She  stood  listening  to  some  sound  from 
the  court.  "  I  have  the  money  by  me  if  you  will  take 
it,"  Mrs.  Bruce  whispered. 

"  I  will  take  anything  to  stop  Mary's  mouth.  I  told 
you  she  was  scorched  very  deep  — " 

"Don't  you  see  what  this  means? — when  a  girl 
like  Mary  loses  all  her  sense  of  humor  and  bullies 
her  mother  —  that 's  not  pride." 

"  You  see,  perhaps,  then,  why  I  don't  propose  to 

83 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

encourage  your  practical  designs  on  that  poor  boy 
who  has  n't  seen  his  family  in  four  years ! " 

"  Designs,  you  blind  woman  I  He  is  in  love  with 
Mary,  or  all  ready  to  be." 

"Then  let  him  take  his  time;  I  shan't  help  him, 
and  you  shall  not  either  1 " 

"  Do  you  consider  that  you  may  be  spoiling  his 
future,  too  ?  " 

"What  do  we  know  about  his  future —  what  does 
he  know  himself !  He  has  not  seen  a  white  woman 
except  Mary  —  " 

"  Mamma,  here  is  your  chance,"  Mary  interrupted, 
coming  down  the  room.  "  Your  absconding  creditor 
is  below."  Tom's  cards  were  presented  as  she  was 
speaking. 

"  Dear  me,  what  a  waste  of  cards !  we  know  quite 
well  whom  it  is  he  wishes  to  see." 

"  Mamma,  you  wish  to  see  him  ! "  said  the  tiresome 
girl.  "I  'm  not  going  down,  of  course." 

" — You  have  got  a  headache?"  Mrs.  Bruce  asked 
ironically. 

"  I  have  —  all  that 's  needful  to  going  straight  to 
bed,  if  any  one  should  inquire?" 

"  Is  that  pride  ?  "  Mrs.  Bruce  nodded  as  Mary  closed 
the  door  on  her  exasperating  behavior. 

Mrs.  Gladwyn  had  her  private  altercation  with  her 
creditor  from  which  he  retired  with  a  hot  face  and 
Mrs.  Bruce's  money,  or  as  much  as  he  would  con- 
sent to  take,  in  his  pocket,  but  he  felt  sorely  cheated 
of  some  other  things.  A  boat  had  been  reported  at 
Chemulpo  to  leave  the  following  noon :  there  was  no 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

more  than  time  next  morning  to  get  himself  and  his 
stuff  on  board. 

"  I  have  never  felt  so  vexed  with  Mary  in  my  life," 
said  Mrs.  Bruce. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  Ludwell  house,  before  the  fire,  stood  near  the 
summit  of  California  Street  obstructing  about  a  hun- 
dred feet  of  that  most  wonderful  view.  There  are 
many  who  remember  it  as  one  of  the  kindest,  as  it 
was  one  of  the  ugliest,  of  those  early  nabob  mansions 
which  the  fire  swept  away :  —  peace  to  its  hospitable 
ashes !  All  that  remained  of  it  when  I  saw  it,  two 
years  after  the  catastrophe,  was  a  cracked  and 
blackened  lintel  open  to  the  sky  and  some  broken 
stone  steps  that  buried  themselves  in  dead  grass.  But 
the  ground  and  the  view  are  still  there,  and  the  Lud- 
wells  are  not  buried  in  dead  grass. 

No  one  who  knew  Mrs.  Ludwell  could  have  pre- 
dicted her  drawing-room  unless  they  knew,  as  well, 
her  almost  fanatical  scrupulousness  in  little  ways 
touching  the  feelings  of  her  friends.  As  the  Ludwells 
grew  richer,  most  of  their  friends  grew  richer,  too : 
there  was  no  stemming  the  tide  of  gifts  and  giving 
—  to  show  unfailing  appreciation  of  such  a  conglom- 
erate stream  of  tribute,  year  by  year,  would  have 
ruined  any  interior-artist's  design.  Cousin  Tom  also 
became  more  assured  of  his  own  connoisseurship  as 
time  went  on,  and  everything  he  touched  seemed 
turned  to  Gold.  His  greatest  happiness,  aside  from 
the  Game,  was  spending  money  on  the  women  he 
loved.  They  writhed  and  counterfeited,  but  his  gifts 

89 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

were  loyally  honored  in  the  sight  of  all ;  he  noticed, 
and  it  hurt  him  if  one  were  guiltily  withdrawn. 

But  —  flowers,  always  flowers  —  and  sunshine 
athwart  the  long  carpets,  and  that  noble  view  of  the 
Bay,  as  far  as  three  sets  of  curtains  allowed  you  to 
see  it,  and  the  daughter  of  the  house  coming  into 
the  room  in  the  heyday  loveliness  of  eighteen  with 
the  step  of  a  flying  joy — that  were  enough  for  most 
of  us ;  it  was  quite  enough,  apparently,  for  Mr.  Dalby 
Morton  who  had  come  to  ride  with  Clare. 

They  met  swiftly  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
executed  a  high  hand-shake  and  both  immediately 
began  to  laugh.  Clare  composed  her  features  quickly 
and  lifted  pathetic  eyebrows  exhibiting  one  little  foot 
still  in  a  house-slipper. 

"  So  sorry  I  can't  go.  I  've  been  trying  to  get  you 
all  the  morning.  —  Sorry  you  came  for  nothing." 

"  Why  can't  you  go?  Suddenly  don't  want  to?" 

"  Oh,  no.  Things  have  been  happening.  It  was 
noon  before  I  got  mamma's  message  and  I  tried  to 
call  you  up,  but  I  suppose  you  were  lunching.  She 
can't  be  home  till  late  and  one  of  us  must  be  here 
when  my  cousin  Tom  arrives.  His  boat  gets  in  to-day, 
and  there  is  such  bad  news  for  him ! " 

Dalby  did  not  recall  the  cousin's  name,  but  paid  his 
respects  to  the  bad  news  in  sobered  silence.  She  left 
the  subject  hastily:  —  "How's  your  new  horse? 
Think  you  are  going  to  like  him?" 

Dalby  said  prudently,  as  one  expecting  to  sell,  that 
he  thought  so ;  it  was  only  in  the  last  five  minutes, 
while  waiting  for  Clare,  that  he  had  made  up  his 

90 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

mind  to  part  with  the  beast,  having  more  than  a  sus- 
picion of  cocked  ankles  in  the  future  of  his  fore 
feet.  The  horse  was  not  outside  :  even  young  persons 
of  fashion  at  that  time  were  frequently  seen  in  a  ple- 
beian street-car  on  their  way  out  to  the  riding-club 
where  their  mounts  awaited  them.  The  talk  went 
back  to  the  family  topic,  and  Clare's  eyes  grew  big 
with  sympathy.  She  had  known  Dalby  longer  than 
she  had  the  cousins  at  Roadside  and  much  more  inti- 
mately; it  was  natural  she  should  speak  to  him  of 
their  present  trouble. 

Cousin  Caroline,  she  said,  was  staying  with  them, 
but  spent  every  moment,  of  course,  with  Cousin 
Henry  at  the  Adler  ;  and  she  explained  how  they  had 
rushed  him  down,  his  wife  and  a  local  doctor,  over 
terrible  country  roads,  afraid  he  might  not  live  to  get 
there.  He  had  been  taken  dangerously  ill  in  some 
wretched  little  mining-town  up  in  the  foothills,  far 
from  the  skilled  help  he  required  at  once.  And  the 
doctors  would  operate  early  to-morrow  morning. 
This  was  the  ambush  of  fate  prepared  for  Tom. 
"  He  can't  have  heard  anything,  you  think?" 
"  Impossible ! "  said  Clare  ;  "  he  's  been  traveling 
a  month.  You  know  this  is  the  cousin  who  went  to 
Korea." 

''He's  quite  a  bit  older  than  you,  isn't  he?" 
"Oh,  yes.  I  was  a  *  flapper'  when  he  went  away. 
He  sent  me  wonderful  post-stamps  for  my  collection 
-  he  has  kept  on  sending ;  I  suppose  he  thinks  I  'm 
a  '  flapper '  still.  But  you  must  remember  him  ?  " 
Dalby  remembered  him,  coolly.  "  Did  n't  we  all  go 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  some  show  together  once  ?  He  took  in  all  stage- 
machinery  business  as  if  it  was  his  trade." 

"  That 's  Tom  !  He  always  wanted  to  know  how 
everything  *  worked '  and  he  generally  found  out.  He 
mended  my  doll's  eyes  once  —  took  off  her  hair  to 
do  it  and  I  cried  and  almost  fought  him.  He  just 
went  ahead  and  said  nothing,  but  it  came  out  all 
right." 

The  talk  continued  to  jump  from  one  thing  to 
another :  the  waste  of  Dalby's  afternoon  sitting  there, 
with  a  new  horse  waiting  and  the  tide  just  right  for 
the  sands ;  the  pity  it  was  to  take  these  things  too 
hard  (Dalby's  turn),  since  people  came  through  them 
every  day.  Who  were  they  going  to  have?  Clare 
named  the  surgeon,  and  Dalby  nodded :  then  it  was 
a  sure  thing.  And  how  about  the  dinner  to-night?  — 
to  a  cluster  of  sub-debutantes,  followed  by  a  box- 
party  at  the  first  appearance  of  a  great  Diva  on  that 
coast. 

Clare  owned  with  proper  reluctance  that  a  dinner 
engagement  must  hold.  Cousin  Caroline  and  Tom 
would  be  at  the  Adler  as  late  as  possible,  this  last 
night:  it  could  make  no  difference  to  them!  Her 
charming  eyes,  arched  like  a  cherub's,  shone  with 
tears  ;  she  looked  very  hard  at  Dalby  and  could 
scarcely  see  him.  He  saw  her  and  he  never  had  liked 
her  so  well ;  he  wanted  to  kiss  her  on  the  spot.  She 
seemed  to  him  suddenly  a  woman. 

Dalby  was  light,  but  he  appreciated  depth  in 
others,  and  he  had  a  very  kind  heart  for  sorrow  as 
well  as  a  respect  for  it,  never  having  had  any  that  he 

92 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

fully  recognized  of  his  own.  Everybody  but  her  hus- 
band and  son  knew  that  Mrs.  Morton's  life  was  a 
tragedy. 

The  butler,  having  answered  the  door,  entered  with 
a  florist's  box  and  submitted  the  address  on  it  to  his 
young  mistress.  "  I  think  there  is  some  mistake,  miss : 
I  told  the  boy  to  wait." 

"  How  stupid,"  said  Clare.  "  This  should  have  gone 
to  the  Adler.  Anything  with  a  Ludwell  on  it  always 
comes  straight  here." 

She  chose  a  pen  from  an  ornate  little  desk  that 
stood  open  at  her  elbow,  underscored  the  "Scarth" 
after  "  Henry  Ludwell,"  and  crossed  out  the  house- 
address.  "  Do  you  spell  it  sanatorium  or  sana- 
torium ?  " 

Dalby  said  either  would  do  for  his  part,  and  James, 
begging  pardon,  murmured,  "  I  think,  miss,  the  Adler 
spells  it  with  an  a" 

"Well,  I  've  just  written  an  o"  said  Clare  cheerily, 
"but  I  guess  it  will  get  there  this  time." 

So  that  was  disposed  of,  and  Mr.  Dalby  Morton 
said  he  must  be  going,  and  Clare  did  nothing  to  hin- 
der him — rather  wishing  he  would:  it  was  time  for 
her  father  any  minute  with  poor  Tom.  How  stupidly 
Dalby  spoke  of  him ;  he  had  n't  seen  the  point  at  all. 
It  did  not  reflect  upon  Dalby  in  her  eyes  that  Tom 
had  seemed  to  him  just  a  common  mechanical  sort 
of  chap ;  rather  she  fell  to  wondering  about  Tom. 
How  would  he  look  after  four  years  in  darkest  Korea 
—  what  would  his  manners  be?  They  were  good  and 
clever,  the  cousins  at  Roadside ;  still,  they  were  a  little 

93 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

odd ;  you  could  n't  combine  them  with  your  other 
friends.  There  was  always  that  just  too  much  of  in- 
dividuality in  speech  and  dress  which  marked  them 
in  society. 

Dalby  ran  down  the  steps  and  gravely  raised  his 
hat  to  Clare  in  the  window.  She  was  yet  such  a 
child  that  all  forms  of  grown-up  homage  from  young 
men  thrilled  her ;  and  Dalby's  nice  upward  look  was 
a  trifle  more  than  conventional.  She  watched  his  well- 
tailored  back  as  he  swung  lightly  aboard  his  car. 

San  Francisco  is  still  young  enough  to  rejoice  in 
turning  out  such  boys  as  Dalby  Morton.  They  do 
nothing  in  particular,  but  they  do  it  in  good  form  ; 
and  their  fathers  in  many  cases  did  more  than  was 
necessary.  They  were  the  men  of  force,  but  they  were 
not  the  men  of  refinement.  Dalby's  father  told 
coarse  stories,  and  was  not  over-careful  of  his  neigh- 
bor's landmarks.  At  Dalby's  age  he  had  half-built 
and  wholly  financed  a  main  line  and  feeders,  —  Web- 
ster's "  substantive  and  six,"  —  fighting  his  right  of 
way  by  hook  or  by  crook,  begging  subsidies,  and  lay- 
ing hands  on  all  the  collateral  mines  and  lands  and 
industries  he  could  suck  into  his  powerful  grasp. 
Dalby  had  a  sporting  sense  of  honor :  he  would  not, 
for  instance,  have  sold  his  new  horse  with  the  future 
cocked  ankles  to  Mr.  Ludwell  for  Clare,  not  though 
Mr.  LudwelPs  head-groom  should  close  one  eye  to 
the  transaction ;  but  he  did  propose  to  work  him  off 
on  any  friend  with  eyes  of  his  own  who  took  the 
risk  of  believing  them. 

Clare  walked  to  the  mantel-mirror  and  smiled  at 

94 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

herself  dreamily ;  then  she  looked  at  herself  sober,  as 
Dalby  had  last  seen  her ;  —  the  reflection  was  still  more 
fair.  The  carriage  drove  up  and  stopped ;  no  one  was 
getting  out.  The  coachman  left  a  message  from  her 
father  to  say  that  he  had  an  appointment  downtown, 
and  that  her  cousin  had  gone  straight  from  the  steamer 
dock  to  the  hospital.  So  everybody's  afternoon  was 
disposed  of  and  she  had  sacrificed  her  own,  —  this 
divine  day,  perfect  for  the  beach-course  or  the  downs. 

She  gave  orders  where  the  carriage  was  to  meet 
her  mother,  and,  catching  her  breath  with  a  little 
laugh,  she  ran  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  the 
riding-club.  She  had  experienced  another  quick  turn, 
and  now  she  saw  only  Dalby's  grave,  upraised  look, 
and  a  vision  of  the  sands  in  evening  light,  and  two 
young  figures  on  horseback  racing  above  the  long 
lines  of  surf,  and  the  dark,  fresh,  glittering  ocean 
rolling  out  to  where  the  Farralones  crown  themselves 
with  sunset. 

They  might  have  missed  each  other —  they  did  not, 
and  one  charmed  hour  was  saved  out  of  a  whole 
wasted  day.  Coming  home,  Clare  motioned  her  com- 
panion to  stop  their  car  at  the  corner  of  Van  Ness 
Avenue. 

"  We  will  walk  down  past  the  Adler ;  I  want  to  in- 
quire about  Cousin  Henry." 

She  waited  on  one  of  the  seats  amidst  flowering 
shrubs,  as  you  enter  through  a  little  court,  now  in 
deep  shade.  It  seemed  a  long  colloquy  between  Dalby 
and  some  one  to  whom  he  spoke  just  inside  the  ves- 
tibule. He  came  down  the  steps  soberly,  and  would 

95 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

not  meet  her  eyes ;  she  fancied  even  he  looked  pale. 
He  stood  by  her  without  speaking  while  some  noise 
in  the  street  went  by  —  a  heavy  express  wagon  piled 
with  trunks  on  its  way  uptown  from  the  ferry.  Still- 
ness settled  on  them  again ;  they  heard  the  distant 
clangor  of  a  cable-car  bearing  down  upon  the  avenue 
from  a  cross-street.  Lights  began  to  prick  through 
the  gathering  fog  in  the  lower  city,  and  doleful  sirens 
answered  one  another  out  on  the  vanished  Bay. 

"What  do  they  say?  Is  he  any  worse ?" 

"  They  sent  a  messenger  for  your  cousin  —  to  lose 
no  time.  There  had  been  a  change :  it  was  decided 
to  operate  at  once.  That  was  three  hours  ago." 

"  While  we  were  riding,"  Clare  murmured  in  an 
awed  tone. 

"It  hasn't  gone  well,  I'm  afraid.  In  fact  —  they 
say  —  he  is  sinking." 

"You  don't  mean  —  he  is  dying!"  Clare  sprang 
up  —  "  Cousin  Henry,  in  there  now  ?  "  She  saw  the 
truth  in  Dalby's  eyes.  "Is  mamma  there?  Oh,  some 
one  ought  to  be  with  Cousin  Caroline  1 " 

Dalby  reminded  her  that  Mrs.  Scarth  had  her  son 
with  her,  although  he  had  not  been  in  time  to  be 
recognized  by  his  father,  who  was  under  the  ether 
when  he  arrived. 

How  unthinkable  this  reality  seemed  after  one's 
foolish  dreams.  She  was  to  wear  a  new  dress  that 
night  —  almost  full  evening  dress.  Tom,  of  course, 
still  thought  of  her  as  a  child  ;  she  was  to  have  burst 
upon  him  in  her  completed  loveliness  —  she  knew 
just  how  she  would  look  in  that  dress.  Then  off  we  go 

96 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  our  other  life  that  claims  us  with  music  and  lights 
and  laughter  and  flowers  from  young  men,  whose 
suffrages  were  not  so  much  worth  in  themselves,  but 
were  highly  necessary  to  a  forthcoming  bud's  success ; 
—  and  our  hearts  at  home  with  the  mothers  sitting  up 
together  listening  to  their  young  traveler's  tales.  A 
few  words  with  Tom  by  himself,  then  kind  good- 
nights  and  Cousin  Henry's  name  in  our  prayers  and 
his  life  saved  in  the  morning.  He  would  get  well : 
every  one  did  who  had  Dr.  Symington  ;  and  she  and 
Tom  would  celebrate  his  convalescence  with  some 
nice  cousinly  times  of  their  own.  Tom,  she  had  de- 
cided, must  be  her  first  lover :  he  was  not  eligible, 
but  he  was  not  contemptible ;  and  she  needed  a  run- 
ner-up to  make  Dalby  Morton  ask  himself  how  he 
stood.  Dalby  had  "  rushed  "  girl  after  girl :  he  should 
not  exhibit  her  as  one  of  his  favorites  of  a  season. 

But  Clare's  worldly  precocity  was  very  much  on  the 
surface ;  she  had  a  warm  heart,  and  it  sank  in  self- 
disgust  at  the  awful  sobriety  of  the  truth  in  contrast 
to  this  silly  tissue  of  vanities  woven  about  one's  own 
image  as  we  long  to  impress  others. 

Dalby  was  respectfully  puzzled  by  her  wretched- 
ness. Had  she  cared  for  these  cousins  so  much  more 
than  he  had  allowed  for  ?  —  as  far  as  he  could  remem- 
ber they  had  had  but  the  slightest  part  in  her  life. 
What  he  did  recognize,  and  it  raised  her  in  his  eyes, 
was  her  quick  and  self-forgetful  sympathy.  Tt  touched 
him  with  a  new  and  sweeter  vision  of  the  girl's  real 
nature,  of  which  he  had  seen  only  the  lightness  and 
hardness  and  excitability  of  youth. 

97 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

She  scarcely  spoke  on  the  way  home,  except  to 
thank  him,  as  they  parted,  for  some  little  attention 
to  her  cousin  —  asking  if  he  could  do  anything  for 
him  while  he  remained  in  the  city. 

Tea  was  brought  and  she  drank  hers  fast,  not  wait- 
ing for  her  mother,  who  came  in,  flushed  and  anxious, 
from  a  conversation  at  the  telephone.  She  quite  up- 
braided Clare  for  being  so  late. 

"  Late,  mamma !  Must  I  go  to  that  dinner  now? " 

Mrs.  Ludwell  answered  impatiently ;  she  had  not 
followed  the  girl's  spiritual  reactions,  and  her  sudden 
absorption  in  this  vicarious  grief  struck  her  as  dis- 
proportionate and  uncalled  for.  Extremes  were  what 
she  had  always  combated  in  Clare. 

With  another  outburst  came  the  cry :  "  Mamma, 
think  of  Engracia !  —  not  to  even  know  !  What  is  she 
doing  now,  I  wonder  ?  —  laughing  and  talking,  per- 
haps." Mrs.  Ludwell  rose  with  lips  shut  hard  and  left 
the  room.  But  Clare  wept  while  her  hair  was  being 
done  because  the  maid  could  not  refrain  from  speak- 
ing of  what  her  mistress  had  purposely  withheld  — 
the  last  message  from  the  Adler.  When  the  dress  had 
gone  over  her  head  and  the  carriage  was  waiting  be- 
low, her  mother  came  in  quietly  and  kissed  her. 

"  It  is  all  over,  dear.  They,  will  be  here  now  in  a 
few  minutes :  —  I  don't  think  you  need  see  them  to- 
night." Her  sweet  brows  were  raised  in  pain,  but 
behind  them  the  mind  of  a  practiced  hostess  worked 
clear.  Another  carriage  drove  up ;  a  soft  bustle  fol- 
lowed the  shutting  of  the  hall  door  but  no  voices. 
With  a  low  order  to  one  of  the  maids,  she  went  down 

98 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  meet  her  guests.  Clare  did  not  go  back  into  her 
room  and  hide  her  inappropriate  splendor ;  she  re- 
mained outside  listening,  with  chills  running  over 
her.  They  came  straight  upstairs,  Cousin  Caroline's 
small,  bowed  figure  with  her  mother's  arm  around 
her ;  no  one  spoke,  but  Clare  flew  to  meet  them,  took 
the  tearless  woman  in  her  arms  and  pressed  her  cool 
lips  to  the  hot,  thin,  stricken  face  that  buried  itself 
on  her  young  breast  in  silence.  But  after  the  bedroom 
door  closed  upon  the  two  wives,  low  sounds  were 
heard,  unknown  in  that  house  since  Clare's  own  child- 
ish griefs  monopolized  its  woes. 

The  butler  passed  her  with  Tom's  bags  and  turned 
a  corner  of  the  hall.  Tom  was  just  behind,  walking 
as  if  he  had  forgotten  his  way  around  the  house.  She 
stepped  in  front  of  him  in  her  startling  festal  white- 
ness and  held  out  both  hands,  calling  him  by  name. 
He  hardly  seemed  to  know  her.  Grief  was  a  new  ex- 
perience to  him,  too;  the  texture  of  his  mind  gave 
way  slowly  to  the  force  of  this  first  great  blow.  He 
had  been  four  years  among  strangers  under  the  in- 
fluence of  outside  impressions,  unused  to  appeals,  to 
little  words  and  looks  of  sympathy  such  as  Clare  gave 
him,  appearing  like  a  bright  angel  in  the  hall.  She 
repeated  his  name  softly,  with  exquisite  pity. 

"Tom,  dear  Tom!  Don't  you  know  me?  This  is 
Clare."  Breaking  through  the  unnatural  chill  between 
them,  she  lifted  her  wonderful  little  face  impulsively 
to  his.  A  silence  followed  his  kiss.  "That  way,"  she 
pointed.  "  Good-night."  He  did  not  stir.  "  I  am  going 
to  an  awful  little  dinner  to-night.  Kiss  your  dear 

99 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

mother  for  me.  I  have  to  go ! "  He  kissed  her  instead 
with,  this  time,  more  consciousness  of  what  he  was 
doing. 

She  felt  exactly  the  same  sober  difference  in  their 
ages  as  she  remembered  him.  He  seemed  to  her  older 
even  than  Dalby  Morton,  though  with  none  of  Dalby's 
gay  sophistication  of  manner.  His  eyes  were  not  cold, 
but  they  had  the  ingenuous,  innocuous  abstraction 
of  a  boy's.  She  had  dramatized  his  grief,  but  she 
could  not  dramatize  him.  He  was  just  Tom — the 
same  as  if  he  had  never  been  away. 


CHAPTER  X 

ENGRACIA  could  not  be  at  her  father's  funeral, 
though  Cousin  Tom  lavished  money  and  used  all 
his  railroad  influence  to  get  her  across  the  continent 
in  time.  To  have  waited,  as  Caroline  was  urged, 
would  only  have  prolonged  the  infliction  of  their 
private  grief  upon  the  generous  Ludwell  household. 
Had  it  been  "just  Anna,"  the  case,  Caroline  felt, 
might  have  been  different.  But  between  her  husband 
living  and  his  cousin  there  had  been  a  mental  and 
temperamental  antagonism  —  forgotten  on  her  host's 
side  now  in  a  great  rush  of  kindness :  still,  for  her, 
there  was  the  irony  of  that  silence  of  the  guest  up- 
stairs, recking  nothing  of  the  profound  stir  his  last 
answer  had  made  —  the  answer  to  all  criticism,  the 
end  of  all  argument  —  that  impenetrable  peace. 

"Others  abide  our  question.  Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask  :  Thou  smilest  and  art  still  —  " 

A  telegram  reached  Engracia  at  Colfax,  checking 
her  through  journey,  and  Tom  met  her  at  Marys- 
ville.  They  had  a  long,  sweet  drive  home,  resting  in 
the  mere  happiness  of  being  together  again,  speak- 
ing of  everything  but  the  dread  fact  awaiting  them 
in  a  common  shyness  of  expression.  But  now  the 
women  were  shut  up  alone  in  the  summer  heat  at 
Roadside,  and  the  mother's  retrospect  began  —  the 

101 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

long,  broken  recital  of  what  had  been  done  or  could 
'not1  t')e  tiqne,  die  mistakes,  the  infinite  despair  of  all 
those  "  too  lates,"  when  the  last  "  too  late"  is  said. 

Engracia  would  have  spared  her  mother  these 
spasms  of  wrenched,  tearless  talk,  but  that  it  must 
come  she  knew  ;  only  speech  at  last  to  the  one  suf- 
ficient listener  could  soften  those  hard  knots  of  grief. 
She  was  not  old  enough,  or  she  was  not  so  made 
that  she  could  share  the  restlessness  that  followed, 
but  she  was  forced  to  witness  it  in  her  mother,  who 
paced  the  house,  rearranging  rooms,  emptying  bureau 
drawers,  putting  out  of  sight  old  things  grown  ter- 
rible ;  or  repenting  and  saying  wildly,  "  These  should 
be  used ;  they  can  do  good  to  somebody ! "  She  wrote 
impossible  letters  to  the  friends  at  home  who  won- 
dered how  she  could  write.  When  implored  to  let 
the  letters  and  the  closets  wait,  she  asked,  "  Wait  for 
what?  You  don't  suppose  it  will  ever  be  any  easier? 
I  am  dead  now — after  a  while  everything  will  hurt." 

Death  is  such  a  strong  revolt  from  nature,  so 
scornful  of  what  we  may  mean  by  our  preparedness 
—  no  wonder,  if  it  be  our  fate  to  meet  it  first  in  mid- 
dle-life, full  of  material  cares,  unable  physically  to 
break  down,  that  it  should  breed  irregular  excite- 
ments and  distortions  of  the  nerves  that  estrange  us 
to  the  knowledge  of  those  who  love  us  best.  It  is 
not  uncommon  to  criticize  the  way  our  friends  "  take" 
their  grief  —  grief  is  a  thing  we  have  to  learn  to 
take,  and  different  temperaments  show  suffering  in 
different  ways.  Engracia  had  matured  early  in  wis- 

102 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

dom  of  the  affections  or  she  could  not  have  under- 
stood her  mother  at  this  time. 

At  length  came  the  reaction :  they  could  read  — 
they  drugged  themselves  with  books.  New  books 
were  not  so  common  in  that  house,  but  old  ones  are 
best;  beloved  poems  they  thought  they  had  known 
took  new  and  piercing  meanings.  Caroline  plunged 
into  all  the  metaphysical  speculations  overhauling 
our  ancient  certainties,  and  through  such  brain-sick 
followings  one  line  from  some  pure  lyric  matchless 
in  its  beauty  would  sob  through  her  heart,  or  a  grand 
sentence  from  the  Bible  more  convincing  than  all  the 
arguments  "  about  it  and  about  —  " 

And  Bran  —  but  how  shall  we  speak  of  Bran  ? 
Who  is  there  has  escaped  the  sight  of  a  dog  taking 
his  share  in  human  grief  with  only  his  dog-soul  to 
help  him?  Bran  could  almost  speak,  but  he  could 
not  understand  —  and  he  could  remember.  He  trav- 
ersed the  house  from  room  to  room ;  he  lay  outside 
a  certain  door  for  hours ;  he  listened  while  he  slept 
—  but  on  that  couch  where  he  was  wont  to  climb 
and  crowd  into  the  space  allotted  him  by  one  he 
missed,  he  was  never  seen  again.  He  would  stand 
there  and  quiver  with  his  nose  and  whimper  to  him- 
self and  go  patting  softly  away,  and  often,  as  if 
brain-weary  with  the  question,  he  would  drop  down 
sighing  and  go  suddenly  to  sleep.  Neither  could 
Bran  believe  there  is  such  a  thing  as  Death.  But  his 
world  was  not  ended  while  he  had  the  young  boss 
and  the  women,  who  were  but  women,  —  still,  one 
loved  them  in  their  place. 

103 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Tom  was  out  in  the  heat  all  day  learning  his 
father's  job.  He  thought  more  of  it  now  that  he  had 
taken  it  on  his  own  shoulders.  At  noon  he  came  in 
and  hurried  through  a  large  lunch  in  silence;  he 
joined  them  at  dinner,  fresh-shaven,  thin,  tall,  in 
spotless  black  and  white,  —  he  was  as  neat  as  a  sol- 
dier in  his  dress ; — this  about  comprised  their  knowl- 
edge of  him  after  four  years.  To  the  intensity  and 
passion  of  their  grief  he  seemed  a  stranger.  But 
what  would  love  be  worth  if  they  could  not  under- 
stand this  as  well  ?  They  were  not  experienced  read- 
ers of  mankind,  but  their  own  type  of  men  they 
knew,  and  loved  them  rather  more  that  allowance 
must  be  made  for  their  inherent  lack  of  expression. 

They,  poor  things,  were  come  to  the  woman's 
eternal  question  of  clothes.  Yet  almost  all  which  that 
dread  just  now  implied  had  been  spared  them  by 
Cousin  Anna's  beautiful  thoughtfulness  and  exhaus- 
tive care.  Boxes  arrived  containing  their  new  mourn- 
ing, entirely  chosen  and  purchased  by  her.  Granting 
that  we  still  do  "  go  into  mourning,"  that  reason  has 
nothing  to  offer  at  such  times,  and  we  crave  ashes, 
veils,  or  any  equivalent  that  custom  dictates,  on  our 
heads  —  what  is  there  one  woman  can  do  for  an- 
other in  the  woman's  world  of  tragic  futilities  to 
match  the  relief  of  this  ?  Anna  had  done  justice  to 
her  friend's  good-breeding  while  she  remembered 
her  circumstances;  —  not  for  twice  the  money  and 
ten  times  the  effort  could  Caroline  have  approached 
such  results.  And  withal  a  letter  explaining  certain 
retrenchments  and  omissions  which  only  Cousin 

104 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Anna's  scrupulousness  could  have  deemed  neces- 
sary. 

"  I  have  tried  to  remember  your  great  heat  up 
there,  my  dears.  Do  wear  anything  white  you  have, 
no  matter  how  it  is  made.  Let  your  loneliness  be  at 
least  a  protection  and  dress  as  you  please.  So  you 
see  I  have  sent  only  two  gowns  apiece  and  very  few 
sets  of  bands.  Engracia  will  find  it  an  occupation  to 
hemstitch  them  herself."  —  A  gentle  hint :  Cousin 
Anna  had  remarked  and  privately  disapproved  of 
Engracia' s  absorption  in  books  to  the  exclusion  of 
her  needle ;  there  were  girls  she  knew  with  fathers 
worth  many  thousands  who  saved  themselves  yearly, 
doing  fine  sewing,  more  than  would  suffice  to  dress 
a  daughter  of  "  the  indigent  poor."  —  "  Gloves  can 
be  ordered  as  you  want  them ;  you  won't  want  them 
unless  you  come  to  the  city.  Engracia's  hat  is  my 
gift.  It  is  one  of  the  newest  shapes  and  the  trimming 
can  be  changed  when  she  leaves  off  a  veil  and  it 
will  still  make  her  a  useful  hat. 

"  As  to  Clare's  visit,  I  hardly  know  what  to  say. 
Her  father  thinks  you  can't  really  want  her ;  still,  it 
is  best  at  these  times,  we  are  told,  to  be  taken  out  of 
ourselves  as  much  as  possible.  It  is  such  happiness 
to  me  to  do  things  for  those  I  love,  and  I  feel  so  sure 
it  is  the  same  with  you,  dear  Caroline,  that  I  shall 
give  you,  regardless  of  your  feelings  in  other  ways, 
an  opportunity  to  help  me  out  in  one  of  my  mother 
problems.  If  you  could  have  Clare  for  a  little  visit, 
much  as  you  may  dread  it  just  now,  it  will  certainly 
make  the  summer  easier  for  me.  I  think  it  was  her 

105 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

own  proposal  at  first ;  now  the  impulse  has  yielded  a 
little  to  other  things,  but  a  letter  from  Engracia,  fix- 
ing a  time,  —  with  an  assurance  from  you  that  it  is 
all  right,  —  would  bring  it  to  pass.  I  am  sure  her 
feeling  in  the  matter  was  very  genuine ;  and  she 
wants  to  become  acquainted  with  Engracia. 

'*  I  know  how  little  you  can  desire  any  change,  any 
mental  movement  or  effort  —  you  are  so  hurt  all 
through !  — but  we  must  not  give  way  to  this  apathy. 
It  certainly  will  not  do  for  Engracia,  and  I  know  how 
little  you  mind  for  yourself,  if  it  were  best  for  her. 
For  my  own  girl  this  summer,  speaking  selfishly,  I 
desire  two  things  in  both  of  which  you  can  help  me. 
A  few  weeks  of  country  quiet  with  such  occupations 
as  she  would  have  with  you,  and  in  some  place  where 
she  does  not  meet  all  the  time  the  same  young  set 
she  will  go  out  with  next  winter.  I  don't  disapprove 
of  them,  —  not  all  of  them,  —  but  she  will  see  quite 
enough  of  them  as  it  is.  Meanwhile  I  want  some- 
thing different,  a  brief  disconnection  of  ideas." 

"  That  means,  I  suppose,  some  young  man  Clare 
is  seeing  too  much  of/'  Caroline  speculated. 

"  It  means  Dalby  Morton,"  said  Engracia. 

"  Is  n't  he  rather  old  for  Clare  ?  " 

"  Dalby  Morton  ?  He  '11  never  be  old  ;  he  has  n't 
half  her  brains  at  any  age." 

"  Well ;  a  letter  like  that  makes  it  easy  to  do  any- 
thing. You  will  write  to  Clare  at  once  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  mother  ;  but  what  will  the  poor  child 
do  up  here?  She  can't  read  and  practice  all  day 
long." 

106 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  She  can  disconnect  her  ideas." 

"  She  can  exercise  Nipper.  Tom  must  get  him  up 
and  have  him  shod." 

"  But  are  you  never  going  to  ride  again  ?  You  are 
always  too  pale  —  " 

"  If  there  were  only  some  other  roads  —  " 

"  Ah,"  groaned  Caroline  —  "  but  can't  you  go 
sometimes  with  Tom  ?  " 

"  That  is  worse,  mother  dear.  Not  one  man  but 
every  man  he  meets,  if  he  has  nothing  else  to  say, 
will  stop  him  and  ask  questions —  and  eye  him  stead- 
ily with  that  cold  curiosity  —  " 

"  No ;  they  mean  it  as  a  tribute ;  they  all  loved 
him." 

"Well  — Tom  can  bear  it,  alone." 

"  He  bears  everything ;  he  does  it  by  hardening 
himself  deliberately,  as  you  ride  down  your  saddle- 
galls.  And  all  his  work  is  haunted  the  same  way.  I 
shudder  to  see  him  at  that  desk  evenings,  going  over 
the  papers ;  and  the  letters  come  —  addressed  the 
same.  —  I  wonder  if  it  will  ever  stop?" 

"Don't  let's  try  too  hard  to  be  reasonable;  it's 
not  to  be  expected.  People  like  us  must  be  allowed 
to  go  out  of  our  minds  harmlessly  for  a  while." 

"  Well ;  the  summer  can't  last  forever ;  then  we 
shall  have  to  begin  to  think." 

They  could  fill  in  each  other's  breaks :  this  think- 
ing which  loomed  ahead  had  reference  to  an  event 
of  fundamental  consequence  to  the  future  of  the 
Torres  Tract  as  well  as  their  own  family  fortunes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ON  the  day  of  Henry  Scarth's  funeral  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, on  the  other  ocean-side,  a  four-year-old  boy 
ran  out  of  his  home  gates  with  his  hand  in  the  collar 
of  a  big  dog.  The  collie  rushed  across  the  road ;  the 
child  would  not  let  go.  A  touring-car  taking  Mr, 
Schuyler  Rivington  to  his  train  —  he  was  driving 
himself  that  morning  —  swung  round  one  of  those 
sharp  curves  hid  in  shrubbery  which  are  a  peculiar 
menace  of  the  North  Shore  roads.  When  he  saw  the 
child,  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything  but  ditch  his 
car.  The  little  boy  was  dragged  home  screaming  by 
a  frightened  nurse  :  but  two  other  little  boys,  at  school 
in  Switzerland,  in  that  moment  became  fatherless; 
their  mother,  a  widow,  at  thirty-one ;  a  chair  stood 
empty  at  a  dozen  directorial  tables  in  New  York  and 
Boston  ;  and  the  Torres  Tract  —  so  little  known  to 
persons  implicated  in  these  other  facts  —  had  lost 
its  president.  Had  Henry  Scarth  lived  a  few  days 
longer  he  would  have  known  that  he  had  lost  his 
own  best  friend,  whose  confidence  while  it  lasted  (it 
had  never  been  broken)  secured  his  position  and 
supported  his  policy  in  the  plans  they  had  made  and 
fostered  together.  The  preponderance  of  stock  in 
Rivington's  name  passed  into  a  trusteeship  pending 
the  settlement  of  his  estate. 

Soon  after  the  official  announcement  reached  Road- 

108 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

side,  Tom,  on  business  in  the  city,  learned  from 
Cousin  Tom  these  particulars,  which  filled  the  East- 
ern papers,  but  had  not  been  given  much  space  on 
the  Coast.  He  heard  also  for  the  first  time,  intimately 
as  it  concerned  them  at  home,  the  name  of  Mr.  Riv- 
ington's  financial  representative  who  held  the  future 
of  the  Tract  in  his  hands. 

"  When  Cornish  comes  out  to  report  on  you,  there 
will  be  no  sentiment  about  it :  he  is  a  very  strict  bus- 
iness man." 

"  Mr.  Rivington,  I  always  supposed,  was  a  good 
business  man  ?  "  Tom  suggested. 

"He  was,  and  he  was  not  —  of  late  years ;  the  pa- 
pers called  him  a  millionaire  philanthropist.  Most  of 
his  shrewd  investments  were  made  earlier.  Cornish 
carried  out  for  him  latterly  a  good  many  policies  he 
did  not  himself  agree  with  :  that  I  am  pretty  sure  of. 
Reclamation  with  private  capital  was  one  of  them. 
Rivington  believed  in  it  as  a  benefit  to  humanity. 
What  he  and  your  father  expected  to  do  on  the 
Torres  Tract,  he  knew  would  never  pay  in  his  life- 
time —  Cornish,  of  course,  can't  act  for  the  widow 
and  heirs  on  any  idealistic  theory  like  that.  He  can't 
be  a  philanthropist  with  trust  moneys.  I  would  ad- 
vise you  to  be  looking  around  for  something  else, 
Tom.  They  may  want  you  to  stay  in  your  father's 
place,  but  they  won't  give  you  his  salary;  —  it  was 
hardly  a  living  salary,  I  'm  afraid.  These  capital  op- 
erations draw  blood.  If  your  load  is  bigger  than  you 
can  carry,  my  boy,  I  hope  you  '11  come  to  me." 

"Thanks,  very  much,"  said  Tom;  his  breath  had 
109 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

checked  for  an  instant.  "  But  I  'd  awfully  hate  to 
borrow  of  a  relative." 

"Why?" 

"  —  On  a  basis  of  sentiment." 

"  Well,  my  boy ;  have  you  any  other  basis?  " 

"  I  don't  happen  to  need  to  borrow,  thanks  again. 
In  fact,  an  uncle  of  mother's  she  used  to  live  with 
sent  her  a  check  as  soon  as  they  heard  the  news. 
They  don't  forget  ever  —  neither  do  others  who  are 
nearer."  Tom  smiled  gamely  in  his  cousin's  face. 
"It's  good  to  have  'folks'  even  if  you  don't  borrow 
of  them.  I  have  my  savings,  too,  from  Korea." 

"  Good  Lord  !  what  did  you  save  on?" 

"  They  raised  me  twice,  you  know  —  and  at  Wiju 
I  was  rich  !  " 

Cousin  Tom  laughed  at  this  wealthy  youngster; 
but  he  liked  him  well,  on  various  showings,  as  their 
elders  measure  boys.  "I  believe  you  will  be  the 
money-maker  of  your  family,  Tom."  Tom  did  not 
look  so  highly  complimented  —  "You  certainly  don't 
squander.  You'll  have  the  stuff  to  lend,  yourself, 
some  day." 

"  Then  I  hope  I  shall  remember  one  or  two  things 
—  like  to-day  —  and  profit  by  it." 

"  You  know,  Tom,  there  are  engineers  —  good 
ones  —  who  make  their  pile  and  get  up  a  reputation, 
too?" 

"  I  believe  there  are  some  who  have  a  reputation 
for  advertising,"  said  Tom. 

"That's  another  matter  —  but  why  not  let  one's 
self  be  known  ?  " 

no 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"There  are,  of  course,  business  men  in  every  pro- 
fession," said  Tom. 

("  That 's  his  father  all  over  again,"  thought  the 
elder.)  "  You  are  not  a  trader  ?  "  —  he  brought  out 
the  touch  of  hauteur  in  Tom's  words. 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,  sir.  I  'd  hate  to  economize,  for 
instance,  if  it  hurt  the  work ;  and  I  'm  not  very  keen 
on  deals  —  contracts." 

"  I  will  remember  your  limitations  "  — Cousin  Tom 
smiled  —  "  in  case  anything  should  turn  up.  Only, 
if  you  choose  a  line,  you  must  stick  to  it,  you  know, 
and  not  butt  into  the  game  you  don't  understand. 
Where  are  you  staying  ?  " 

Tom  mentioned  his  hotel. 

"  Send  up  your  grip  to  us  —  like  to  have  you  very 
much." 

"  Thanks,  sir;  I  'd  like  to  come  —  I  don't  believe  I 
will  though."  Tom's  face  showed  increasing  warmth. 

"  What 's  the  trouble  now  ?  Don't  want  to  make  a 
convenience  of  your  friends?" 

"  Not  that  altogether,"  said  Tom  quite  truthfully. 
He  did  not  argue  the  question  in  metaphors  but  he 
had  read  of  the  siren's  isle ;  perhaps  he  thought  he 
heard  singing  that  sounded  like  the  voice  of  his  cousin 
Clare. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THOSE  listless  women,  meanwhile,  ignorantly  pray- 
ing the  summer  were  past,  made  their  effort  for  sweet 
Cousin  Anna's  sake  and  were  rewarded  one  day  by  the 
sight  of  Clare  breaking  out  of  that  grimy  chrysalis,  the 
Marysville  stage,  like  a  delicate  yellow  butterfly.  She 
was  covered  by  a  tussah  silk  ulster,  and  a  Liberty 
scarf  tied  in  an  inspirational  knot  (price  of  that  in- 
spiration, twenty  dollars)  relieved  the  severity  of  her 
traveling-hat.  There  is  refreshment  in  new  styles 
and  new  touches  of  style  —  they  excite  amusement  if 
not  pleasure ;  but  anything  Clare  put  on  became  a 
pleasure  in  its  relation  to  herself,  and  Cousin  Anna 
was  an  expert  in  choosing  what  is  most  recondite 
in  every  fashion. 

Her  gay  cordiality  melted  into  tenderness  as  she 
gave  Cousin  Caroline  a  vigorous  girlish  hug.  Of 
Engracia  she  was  a  trifle  more  wary.  How  had  she 
taken  this  experience?  Her  face  gave  no  sign.  Its 
smoothness  of  outline  had  gained  in  spirituality  as 
in  subtlety  by  an  almost  mediaeval  thinness.  Clare 
liked  her  no  less,  however,  for  not  being  able  to  see 
that  rare  "type,"  better  than  beauty,  which  her 
mother  had  spoken  of.  Cousin  Anna  was  not  a  stu- 
dent of  types,  but  she  had  watched  a  good  many 
children's  faces  as  they  developed,  and  she  had  a 
delicate  sense  of  harmony  in  expression.  Engracia 

112 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

thought  Clare  the  sweetest  thing  she  had  ever  seen 
and  the  prettiest. 

"  We  improve,  we  kids,  as  we  get  older,  don't  we, 
mamsy  ?  "  she  hinted  later.  "  I  am  taking  back  things 
very  fast." 

"  What  things?"  her  mother  asked  idly. 

"No  matter ;  I  take  them  back,  and  I  take  off  my 
hat  to  Clare.  She 's  a  downright  dear." 

"  I  told  you  so." 

"  And  I  did  n't  believe  you  —  I  thought  I  knew  her, 
but  I  did  n't,  it  seems." 

"Well,"  said  her  mother,  as  if  the  matter  might 
not  be  quite  settled  after  all. 

Clare  was  perfectly  sure  she  had  come  for  Engra- 
cia's  sake,  just  to  keep  her  company.  If  not  altogether 
true,  she  was  prepared  to  make  it  true,  but  circum- 
stances were  against  this  well-bred  resolution.  There 
was  only  one  Nipper  for  both  girls,  and  Engracia 
stayed  at  home  by  preference  —  to  be  with  her  mother, 
she  said. 

It  was  amusing  at  first,  those  rides  all  over  the  work 
with  Tom.  She  had  never  been  so  frankly  taken  as  a 
matter  of  course  by  any  young  man  since  she  grew 
up ;  there  were  no  apologies  when  he  kept  her  wait- 
ing in  the  sun  at  farmyard  gates  while  he  went  inside 
and  waded  his  horse  through  pig-litter  and  cow-litter 
to  have  speech  with  the  rancher  coming  slowly  forth 
in  shirt-sleeves  accompanied  by  dogs  and  fowls  and 
children  ;  and  after,  he  appeared  to  be  thinking  what 
the  man  had  said  as  they  rode  along  ;  or  if  he  did  talk, 
there  was  no  return  in  his  words  or  manner  of  that 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

fascinating  shy  hint  of  unspoken  passion  that  had 
been  the  under-note  of  their  intercourse,  and  made 
him  interesting  in  those  tragic  days  in  the  city.  He 
had  lost  that  fixed  paleness  of  shock,  under  his  strong 
coat  of  sea-tan  that  so  became  him  then :  he  was  more 
red  than  brown.  His  face  perspired ;  sometimes  he 
wore  hats  that  were  carelessly  unbecoming.  In  the 
evening  he  looked  well  —  he  was  restored  in  one  way, 
but  his  manner  was  no  more  seductive  than  in  broad 
day,  and  never  helpless.  Instead  of  sitting  out  in  the 
moonlight  on  the  steps  or  strolling  by  her  side  down 
the  queer,  silent  little  garden,  he  was  chiefly  absorbed 
in  endless  accounts  or  letters  to  go  by  next  day's 
stage. 

She  flattered  him  sometimes  by  bringing  out  his 
foreign  tales  and  that  roused  him  a  trifle,  but  even 
here  she  felt  his  deep  reserve.  Disappointment  with 
her  visit  occupied  her  thoughts  even  more  than  the 
light  dreams  had  done,  when  it  seemed  fit  that  Tom 
should  be  her  first  —  rejected  —  suitor.  She  gave  up 
the  rides  and  slept  late,  and  did  not  see  him  at  break- 
fast. By  afternoon  she  had  become  infected  with  the 
family  habit  of  waiting  for  Tom  —  there  was  nothing 
else  to  wait  for.  He  was  always  late  for  tea.  Engra- 
cia,  who  could  dress  in  twenty  minutes,  waited  to 
give  it  to  him  ;  she  would  see  them  from  her  window 
—  Tom  stretched  on  the  grass  under  the  apple  trees 
smoking,  with  Bran  across  his  chest,  Engracia  sitting 
Turk-fashion,  rocking  herself  while  she  talked.  They 
had  no  end  of  what  seemed  perfectly  good  talk  inter- 
spersed with  restful  silences,  when  Bran  would  furx 

114 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

lively  lick  Tom's  ear  and  have  smoke  blown  in  his 
face. 

There  had  come  a  letter  for  Clare  one  day  —  con- 
spicuous by  its  envelope  of  a  new  shape  and  color 
in  passing  favor  with  adventurous  girlhood.  Clare 
glanced  at  both  with  disdain.  She  was  her  mother's 
own  daughter  in  taste.  Her  singing  went  badly  that 
afternoon,  and  she  found  fault  with  Engracia  at  the 
keyboard.  Afterwards  the  girls  argued  long  and 
testily  over  the  ethics  of  a  new  novel  which  Engracia 
had  merely  read  reviews  of,  and  Cousin  Caroline  re- 
quested them  to  "  stop  wrangling,  silly  things,  and 
do  some  more  Schumann." 

But  of  Schumann  as  of  other  estimable  things,  in- 
cluding estimable  cousins,  there  may  come  satiety, 
on  a  midsummer  afternoon,  when  the  heat  has  in- 
vaded the  house,  and  at  night  —  when  the  moon  is 
growing  old  and  a  dreamy  little  garden  lies  steeped 
in  her  light,  with  no  stricken  male  soul  to  share  it 
with.  Such  restlessness  was  felt  (and  watched  and 
guarded)  in  Venice  balconies,  "when  the  nights  were 
warm  in  May,"  —  and  paces  the  corridors  of  old 
Spanish- American  houses,  where  youth  and  sex  are 
still  a  woman's  only  power.  Clare  was  not  thinking 
of  any  particular  male  soul,  but  what  are  summer 
moons  and  summer  dresses  for?  It  was  the  game 
all  the  girls  were  playing  —  what  girl  but  likes  to 
hold  her  own  and  come  off  with  her  share  of  the 
honors  ? 

But  was  it  such  good  fun,  after  all  ?  Some  of  the 
boys  were  men  ;  some  of  the  girls  began  to  feel  like 

US 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

women  —  and  there  was  her  letter!  She  went  up- 
stairs, not  to  bed,  but  to  read  it  over  again  ;  and 
again  it  gave  her  a  little  sick  pang  of  fury.  It  was  a 
very  idle  sort  of  letter  from  a  very  idle  Edna,  one  of 
those  young  persons  possibly  whom  Clare's  mother 
thought  her  opening  bud  might  easily  see  too  much 
of.  She  was  a  guest  at  Overleap,  Roberta  Sands' s 
big  house,  where  she,  an  orphan  heiress,  entertained 
with  the  sufficiency  of  her  own  great-grandmother, 
an  embassy  lady  in  Tyler's  administration  —  or  was 
it  Folk's?  —  a  daring,  original  girl,  looked  up  to  with 
a  slight  fear  by  the  other  girls.  She  had  more  back- 
ground socially  than  many  of  them,  though  it  was 
little  in  evidence  beyond  the  presence  as  chaperon  of 
a  modest,  elderly  kinswoman  of  the  type  it  takes  time 
and  selection  to  produce.  Roberta  had  a  certain  high 
sense  of  fairness,  a  satiric  unconcern  about  men,  a 
scorn  of  mere  wealth,  and  a  command  of  language 
when  she  chose,  that  was  quite  terrific. 

"  Dalby  Morton  is  here,"  the  letter  ran,  "  distinctly 
peeved  because  you  are  not.  Can't  say  he  wears  any 
willows,  though.  He  spends  his  entire  time  with  his 
hostess ;  she  makes  him  her  end-man,  and  between 
them  they  keep  us  in  screams !  Roberta's  clothes  are 
more  wonderful  than  ever.  I  've  made  up  my  mind 
that  she  isn't  plain.  She  is  fascinatingly  ugly — as 
ugly  as  some  of  those  old  portraits  of  women  we  are 
told  were  beauties  in  their  day.  She  dresses,  of  course, 
like  a  winner,  she  moves  and  speaks  like  one,  and 
she  wins  !  It 's  ten  to  one  the  great  Dalby  strikes  his 
colors  before  this  visit  is  over  —  though  what  she  '11 

116 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

do  with  him  nobody  knows.  No,  my  dear ;  we  kids 
are  not  in  it  with  the  Lady  of  Overleap." 

Poor  little  Clare  !  she  was  "  out  of  it "  on  all  sides  ; 
—  her  city  playfellow  forgetting  her,  her  nice,  ineli- 
gible country  cousin  not  working  up  the  part  she 
had  honored  him  with.  That  night  she  wrote  to  her 
mother  setting  a  date  for  the  visit's  close.  "  They 
must  be  getting  tired  of  me  here  and  I  am  just  a  lit- 
tle tired — not  of  them  ;  they  have  been  lovely  to  me, 
but  of  the  heat,  which  is  terrible.  Have  had  a  letter 
from  Edna  at  Overleap  —  sounds  so  cool  and  deli- 
cious up  there.  I  don't  believe  Roberta  will  ever  ask 
me  again  if  she  hears  I  am  home,  when  I  refused 
because  I  was  going  away.  Suppose  I  write  and 
reconsider? — all  the  others  are  there  —  it's  a  sub- 
debutante's  party.  I  could  go  up  for  Friday  to  Monday, 
anyhow.  Marie  had  better  send  my  white  coat  to  the 
cleaners." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LETTERS  to  go  by  mail  were  left  on  a  certain  table 
by  the  office  door.  Adding-  hers  to  the  heap  next 
morning,  Clare  saw  a  name  on  an  envelope  in  Tom's 
handwriting  which  so  surprised  her  that  she  invol- 
untarily read  the  address. 

She  was  seated  on  the  veranda  steps  that  evening, 
and  Tom  against  the  opposite  post  as  usual  was 
smoking.  Girls  did  not  very  generally  smoke  in 
1904  and  they  had  skirts  as  much  as  six  yards  wide 
at  the  hem,  where  they  ended  in  a  sort  of  mermaid 
sweep  —  "  sheath-skirts  "  perhaps  we  mean.  Clare  was 
so  sheathed  as  she  sat  with  a  huddle  of  little  lacy 
frills  about  her  silken  ankles.  —  We  Ve  forgotten 
how  pretty  it  all  was  and  how  feminine.  (The  date 
of  this  writing  was  1913.) 

"  Excuse  my  looking  at  your  letters,"  she  said ; 
"  I  really  did  n't  mean  to,  but  I  saw  a  name  I  used 
to  know." 

"  I  don't  hide  my  letters,"  Tom  smiled,  lifting  his 
chin  to  blow  away  smoke. 

"  You  seem  to  hide  your  friends.  Why  in  the  world, 
if  you  knew  those  Gladwyns  in  Korea,  could  n't  you 
have  said  so  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  asked  me ;  and  —  I  did  n't 
know  them  very  well." 

"  You  write  letters  to  girls  you  don't  know  very 
well?  I  should  take  that  to  be  your  custom  1" 

118 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  I  wrote  a  special  letter,  if  you  care  to  know,  in  a 
case  where  almost  strangers  were  very  kind  to  me." 

"  Do  you  mind  telling  me,  just  for  fun,  how  much 
you  did  know  them  —  I  suppose  it  was  in  Korea  — 
and  what  you  thought  of  them  ?  " 

Tom  gave  a  short  laugh :  "  I  should  n't  speak  of 
them  collectively.  They  are  not  in  the  least  alike." 

"  Begin  with  Mary,  then ;  what  do  you  think  of 
her?" 

"  Mr.  Gladwyn,"  Tom  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
to  say  composedly, "  brought  his  family  down  to  Wiju, 
when  the  Cossacks  were  running  about  —  not  that 
there  was  any  danger." 

"  Tom,  you  don't  know  how  to  tell  a  story !  There 
should  be  danger !  Let  there  be  danger  1 " 

"  Very  well.  Suppose  you  tell  it." 

"  Go  on.  How  many  white  people  were  there  in 
Wiju?" 

"  Ourselves  —  two  men  —  and  the  ladies,  most  of 
the  winter." 

"  Most  of  the  winter,  — and  you  hardly  knew  them ; 
although  you  write  to  them,  of  course !  Really,  there 
must  be  a  method  in  these  mysteries." 

"There  is  very  little  method  in  anything  when 
you  run  up  against  a  war.  They  came  down  to  Seoul 
with  us  in  the  spring  when  we  were  closed  out,  you 
know." 

"/know!  —  how  should  I  know?  The  last  thing 
you  would  talk  about  would  be  two  ladies  in  your 
care  on  a  journey  like  that.  Any  one  else  would  have 
had  an  interview  in  the  '  Chronicle.'  " 

119 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Tom  said  nothing. 

"Didn't  you  find  it  interesting ?" 

"  I  did  —  at  the  time :  other  things  were  waiting 
for  me  here." 

Clare  held  out  her  hand  impulsively.  He  kept  it  a 
moment  and  their  eyes  met  in  a  long  look  of  kindness. 

"  Begin,  now,  and  tell "  —  she  settled  her  elbows 
in  her  lap  —  "and  don't  skip." 

"  I  saw  very  little  of  them  on  the  road  —  we  being 
only  the  escort." 

"  How  did  they  ride  —  what  did  they  ride  ?  " 

"They  were  carried,  as  all  ladies  are,  in  sedan 
chairs  —  and  men  too  —  " 

"  You  were  carried  too  ?  " 

"  No ;  we  rode  things  they  call  horses." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Clare. 

"  Well,  we  left  them  at  Seoul  —  where  I  got  my 
cable  to  come  home." 

"  Where  do  American  ladies  stay  at  Seoul  ?  " 

"  They  stayed  with  some  English  friends  who  are 
living  there.  It  was  quite  a  change  —  dining  at  a 
civilized  table." 

"  So  ;  you  stayed  there  too  ?  This  gets  better  and 
better.  Oh,  Tom,  you  fraud  !  " 

"They  naturally  took  me  in  for  a  meal  or  two. 
The  Gladwyns  did  n't  shake  me  off  like  the  dust  on 
their  feet." 

"  I  quite  believe  you.  And  now  that  my  eyes  are 
opened,  tell  me  —  did  you  buy  those  lovely  dresses 
all  by  your  lonest  ?  I  wondered  how  you  came  to 
know  so  much  about  women's  shopping." 

120 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"You  liked  them?" 

"  Exquisite !  Engracia  has  given  me  hers ;  she 
can't  wear  it  for  so  long  —  and  her  mother  has  given 
her  hers.  Not  that  she  could  n't  wear  white  after  a 
while,  if  she  would  only  think  so." 

Tom  thought  it  particularly  sweet  in  Clare  to  ac- 
cept the  dress  from  Engracia  —  she  that  could  have 
had  a  new  dress  for  every  day  in  the  year.  It  takes 
generosity  to  remember  that  it  hurts  a  little,  even 
between  friends,  when  the  giving  is  all  on  one  side. 
"  Yes,  I  had  some  help  there,"  he  admitted  with  a 
very  good  grace. 

"  Mrs.  Gladwyn,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No  ;  Mrs.  Gladwyn  is  a  doctor ;  she  does  n't 
bother  much  about  clothes." 

"  Her  friend  who  lives  in  Seoul  ?  " 

"  No :  Miss  Gladwyn  and  I  took  an  afternoon  to 
it.  She  's  amazingly  clever  about  those  things." 

"  How  do  you  know  whether  she  is  clever  about 
*  those  things '  ?  I  suspect  she  is  clever  about  every- 
thing, in  your  eyes.  .  .  .  The  streets  of  Seoul !  —  a 
parting  close  at  hand  —  nothing  like  foreign  soil  to 
draw  the  hearts  of  Americans  together.  .  .  .  And 
why  is  she  in  Hongkong?" 

"  Training  for  a  nurse."  Tom,  on  the  whole,  rather 
enjoyed  his  cross-examination ;  Clare's  interest  was 
complimentary  ;  also  it  gave  him  an  opportunity  pri- 
vately to  investigate  himself  a  little  on  that  subtly 
remembered  past. 

"  Why  does  she  want  to  be  a  nurse  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Tom,  staring  into  his  pipe-bowl, 

121 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  her  parents  are  working  for  the  heathen  and  she 
has  her  own  living"  to  earn." 

Clare  dropped  her  eyes ;  presently  she  said  in  a 
different  voice,  "  I  ought  to  know  that !  —  I  knew  her 
at  Miss  Hardinge's." 

"  Yes,  she  remembered  you,"  said  Tom  innocently. 

He  wondered  why  Clare  blushed  —  she  felt  her 
face  flame ;  and  the  militant  honesty  that  never  hid 
a  slip  nor  shirked  a  confession  goaded  her  on  to  say 
with  passionate  exaggeration,  "  I  liked  her  awfully 
well,  and  she  liked  me,  but  I  was  such  a  little  beast 
that  when  she  went  away  between  terms,  and  I  coaxed 
the  reason  out  of  her,  I  went  and  told  some  one  else 

—  it  was  just  plain,   wretched  poverty  1  The  some 
one  else  was  Roberta  Sands,  unlucky  for  me.  She 
gave  me  a  piece  of  her  mind  *  with  the  chill  off '  and  I 

—  I  slapped  her  face  I  She  never  could  bear  me,  any- 
how. Miss  Hardinge  got  hold  of  it  through  another 
teacher,  a  snob  of  a  woman  who  saw  the  whole 
thing.  'A  fine  scene  for  the  daughters  of  the  first 
families,'  she  called  it ;  that  was  her  style !  But  Miss 
Hardinge  was  all  the  *  family'  I  needed  when  she 
took  me  apart  for  a  short  conversation." 

Tom  looked  away  and  smoked  in  silence. 

"  Of  course,"  Clare  continued,  "  Mary  might  have 
told  me  she  'd  been  asked  to  stay  as  an  honor-pupil, 
but  she  did  n't.  I  had  to  apologize,  and  she  hugged 
me  and  said  it  was  her  own  fault  for  not  keeping  her 
family  matters  where  they  belonged.  I  can  see  now 
it  was  pride  made  her  blurt  it  out  —  and  they  were 
proud ;  for  I  told  mamma  the  whole  story  and  she 

122 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

went  to  Miss  Hardinge  and  wanted  to  pay  Mary's 
school-bills,  for  the  sake  of  her  father's  work,  but  that 
was  n't  accepted  either." 

And  still  Tom  smoked  in  silence. 

"How  does  Mary  look?" 

"  Pretty  well,  I  should  say,  considering ;  she  and 
her  mother  are  pretty  good  travelers." 

"  I  don't  mean  how  is  she ;  I  meant  her  looks.  She 
used  to  have  wonderful  hair  she  could  sit  on  and  a 
big  mouth  full  of  splendid  teeth." 

"  Her  teeth  seemed  to  be  all  there." 

"  It 's  perfectly  plain  what 's  the  matter  with  you, 
Tom !  Well,  I  won't  tease  you." 

"  You  can't  tease  me  —  about  Miss  Gladwyn  ;  but 
I  don't  much  fancy  this  style  of  joking,  if  you  ask 
me." 

"The  very  saying  you  aren't  teased  shows  you 
are.  Never  mind :  it 's  good  for  you.  You  are  taken 
too  seriously  in  your  own  family,  Tom ;  and  you  all 
take  jokes  —  well,  of  this  kind  —  too  awfully  to 
heart.  That 's  my  frank  opinion,  though  it  may  be  a 
fault  on  the  right  side.  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  how 
you  could  help  being  in  love  with  any  girl  not  an 
absolute  monster,  cooped  up  all  winter  with  her  in  a 
place  like  Wiju  —  and  such  a  journey !  I  should 
think  you  were  made  out  of  wood  if  you  were  n't. 

"Admit  that  I  might  have  been,  though  I  did  n't 
know  it  —  I  certainly  am  not  in  love  with  her  now." 

"If  you  did  n't  know  it  then,  how  can  you  be  sure 
you  are  n't  now  ?  " 

"  For  the  simple  reason  —  "  said  Tom,  his  eyes 
123 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

changing  —  "If  I  tell  you  why,  will  you  promise  not 
to  ask  me  another  question  ?  " 

"What  about?" 

"  You  know  what  about ! " 

"  Is  that  necessary?" 

"  It 's  the  condition." 

"  I  promise,"  said  Clare  softly. 

"  I  am  not  in  love  with  her —  now,  because  I  'm 
in  love  with  some  one  else  —  and  this  time  I  do 
know  it." 

Clare  broke  her  promise  in  the  next  sentence  and 
Tom  got  up  and  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CLARE'S  trunk  had  gone  by  stage.  Tom  was  to  drive 
her  down  to  Marysville,  starting  in  about  an  hour. 
Consuming  a  whole  day  was  an  effort  and  an  honor 
not  bestowed  on  every  guest,  and  Tom's  mother 
took  it  in  this  case  for  evidence  conclusive  that  he 
was  personally  affected  by  his  cousin's  departure. 

A  conversation  of  extreme  and  sudden  intimacy 
had  sprung  up  between  her  and  Clare  in  the  sitting- 
room  alone.  Its' animation  marked  the  relief  that  is 
sometimes  felt  at  the  close  of  a  visit,  in  the  main  suc- 
cessful, yet  which  has  proved  to  be  something  of  a 
strain  on  both  sides.  Caroline  was  delighted  with 
Clare,  but  as  a  mother  she  studied  her  in  the  light  of 
what  mischief  she  might  do. 

"What  Tom  needs  is  to  play  with  girls  more," 
said  Clare,  reckless  of  the  tender  theme. 

"Then  play  with  him,"  said  Tom's  mother,  dis- 
sembling. 

"  I  mean,  he  needs  to  be  flirted  with." 

"  Then  flirt  with  him."  Caroline's  effort  would  not 
have  deceived  a  child,  but  Clare  saw  nothing  artificial 
in  her  bravado.  "Only  be  careful—  "  she  added. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  serious,  cousin  ;  though  I  think,  for 
that  matter,  Tom  could  take  care  of  himself :  he 's 
a  great  discourager  of  flirtation,"  she  laughed  tc 
herself. 

125 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  The  only  flirtation  that  is  fair  between  you  young- 
things  is  the  kind  that  might  be  serious  if  it  wanted 
to.  Unless  my  boy  is  flirted  with  on  that  plan,  I 
hope  he  '11  be  left  alone." 

"  I  don't  see  why  any  girl  should  n't  be  serious 
with  Tom,  if  she  felt  like  it." 

" — To  the  extent  of  marrying  him,  for  instance?" 

"  Certainly,  if  she  cared  enough." 

"  Enough  for  him,  or  also  enough  to  share  his  life 
—  of  small  means  in  stupid,  lonely  places?" 

"  But  why  should  n't  he  be  one  of  the  successful 
engineers  who  don't  stay  in  stupid  places?" 

Caroline  laughed  at  the  ingenuous  definition.  "Be- 
cause if  you  are  going  to  change  the  face  of  nature 
you  have  to  go  where  nature  is,  if  you  call  nature 
stupid.  And  an  engineer's  success  doesn't  always 
mean  a  choice  of  where  to  live; — a  girl  who  insisted 
on  that  should  never  flirt  with  a  boy  like  Tom.  She 
might  spoil  his  work  or  only  just  spoil  him  —  for 
any  other  girl." 

"  How  tragic  we  are !  All  because  I  said  he  ought 
to  play  with  girls." 

"  Girls  can  make  tragedy  for  men  who  are  capable 
of  tragedy  —  which  means  the  power  to  feel  in  excess 
of  the  power  to  reason,  doesn't  it?" 

"That  doesn't  sound  much  like  Tom,"  said  Clare 
with  a  little  pout  of  sarcasm. 

"  I  think  it  does ;  but  perhaps  his  mother  does  n't 
know  him." 

"  Cousin,  I  assure  you  —  and  I  speak  for  the  other 
girls  too  —  we  like  the  men  of  Tom's  kind,  only  they 

126 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

must  let  themselves  go !  They  must  make  us  '  feel 
beyond  our  power  to  reason.' " 

"  You  mean,  that  a  girl  brought  up  in  your  circum- 
stances could  marry  a  man  in  Tom's,  with  a  fair 
chance  of  happiness?" 

"  I  mean  that  circumstances  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it." 

"  I  can  scarcely  believe  you ;  but  if  it 's  true,  it  looks 
as  if  we  had  not  lost  our  American  girls  —  the  kind 
who  helped  to  *  subdue  the  continent.'  They  did  not 
have  easy  lives,  but  they  knew  something  about  the 
True  Romance — that  you  and  Engracia  were  quar- 
reling about." 

"  Oh,  I  understood  her  little  jeer  "  (an  allusion  to 
one  of  those  hot-weather  arguments  in  which  each 
side  said  more  than  it  meant,  and  East  and  West 
were  personified  in  the  light  of  conventional  preju- 
dice). "  We  girls  get  tired  out  here  of  being  called 
materialistic,  and  spoiled  children.  We  do  believe  in 
the  real  things,  if  we  could  ever  get  at  them." 

"  If  they  could  get  at  you !  Well,  we  '11  forgive  each 
other ;  and  I  need  forgiveness  for  dragging  in  my 
son  —  only  as  a  type,  though.  The  boys  will  have  to 
take  their  lives  in  their  own  hands  when  it  comes  to 
you  wretched  girls  in  reality.  Mothers  can't  help  nor 
hinder." 

"  But,  cousin,"—  Clare  blushed  beautifully,  —  "  Tom 
will  never  risk  his  life  on  me.  You  don't  know  what 
a  glacier  he  is!  I  might  confess,  if  it  was  worth 
while  —  " 

Engracia  entered  just  then  upon  what  looked  to 

127 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

that  astute  observer  like  a  most  injudicious  ex- 
change of  confidences:  her  mother's  blush,  repeating 
Claret,  confirmed  her  worst  suspicions. 

It  was  the  first  sign  of  returning  mental  health  with 
Caroline  that  she  could  dream  once  more  of  happi- 
ness, —  her  children's,  —  even  though  she  dreamed 
preposterously.  She  grew  proud  in  her  folly  and 
sought  sympathy  of  Engracia,  who  had  suspected 
what  was  going  on  in  those  lonely  piazza  pacings, 
from  which  her  mother  came  in  to  the  light  with  a 
new  expression  on  her  face.  She  saw  her  duty  in  the 
case  and  did  it  without  flinching. 

"  Leaving  out  Cousin  Anna  and  Cousin  Tom,  — 
though  I  think  you  would  find  him  quite  an  obstacle, 
—  Clare  can  have  any  man  she  wants  if  she  is  firm 
about  it ;  but  she  does  n't  want  Tom.  Only  his  mother 
and  sister  could  imagine  such  a  thing." 

"Who  knows!"  the  obsessed  one  retorted.  "She 
gave  me  the  impression  that  Tom  could  have  any 
girl  he  wanted  if  he  were  'firm  about  it,'  and  that  he 
had  n't,  moreover,  even  tried,  in  her  case." 

"  Mother,  mother !  She  was  talking  to  you  1  She 's 
not  refusing  Tom  to  his  own  mother  before  he  has 
asked  her.  —  His  refusal  is  ready  for  him  just  the 
same." 

"  It  would  work  out  beautifully,"  Caroline  sighed, 
hugging  her  folly.  "  She  would  light  up  his  life  of 
plain  dig,  and  he  would  give  her  '  the  stars  and  the 
stillness,'  and  that  single-hearted  devotion  all  her 
life  that's  not  so  common  these  days,  let  me  tell 
you." 

128 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Yes,  if  she  wanted  his  single  heart,  but  she  does  n't 
Tom  could  n't  win  a  girl  like  Clare,  and  he  may 
thank  his  stars  and  his  stillness  that  he  can't.  Of 
course  she  is  terribly  pretty." 

"  I  see  higher  things  in  her  than  you  do." 

"  You  see  her  as  she  is  not —  now.  She  isn't  ready 
for  the  stars  and  the  stillness  (forgive  me,  mamsy), 
and  who  blames  her  for  it !  Not  I !  you  have  got  to 
love  a  man  awfully  well  before  you  dare  to  live  Tom's 
life  with  him  —  our  life,  that  you  lived  —  " 

"My  dear,  I  don't  brag  of  it.  I  should  call  it  a 
much  greater  'dare'  to  venture  on  a  life  of  arrant 
luxury  with  one  of  those  spoiled  boys  of  rich  men's 
sons  who  have  never  wanted  a  thing  they  did  not 
get!" 

"  That 's  the  venture  Clare  will  make,  however, 
and  it  will  teach  her  all  she  needs  to  know  —  and  all 
he  needs  to  know,  unless  it  ends  in  shipwreck  for 
them  both." 

"Ah,  well;  in  these  days  it  is  the  children  who  are 
wise  —  " 

"  But,  mammy  dear,  can't  you  see  what  a  wild  ex- 
periment it  would  be  for  them  both  —  supposing 
everything  true  that  isn't  true?  I  don't  believe  Tom 
himself  would  ever  dream  of  it." 

"  And  I  believe  his  heart  is  hers,  in  a  smothered 
way,  already." 

"  He  had  better  keep  it  smothered,  then.  He  may 
be  having  a  few  aches,  but  he  '11  get  over  it.  Thank 
Heaven,  he 's  busy  !  " 

"  As  I  say,  it  is  the  young  who  have  all  the  pru- 
129 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

dence  nowadays  :  fathers  and  mothers  are  generally 
mistaken,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  Always,  when  they  try  to  marry  off  their  chil- 
dren." 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  FEW  more  weeks  and  then  came  the  dreaded  ex- 
ecutor's visit,  and  matters  of  the  heart  were  put  by 
for  a  more  immediate  crisis.  The  women  hid  their 
nervousness  under  a  specious  levity.  Engracia  wanted 
to  know  where  Himself,  as  she  called  Mr.  Gifford 
Cornish,  in  view  of  his  looming  largeness  in  their 
affairs,  could  be  least  unworthily  lodged.  The  guest- 
room proper  at  this  season  had  the  affliction  of  an 
afternoon  sun  weltering  in,  but  it  had  its  own  bath- 
room; it  also  had  two  closets.  The  bathroom  set- 
tled it. 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  must  see  to :  I  know  I 
shall  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Scarth  exhaustedly.  "  Find 
the  key  to  that  second  closet  and  lock  it !  —  or  take 
your  things  out." 

"  Himself  can't  want  two  closets  —  he's,  not  going 
to  stay  all  winter,  let  us  hope." 

Engracia  had  but  one,  and  since  leaving  off  colors, 
she  had  a  banished  collection  of  pinks  and  blues  and 
hats  with  roses  to  quarter  somewhere.  It  struck  her 
as  the  last  straw  to  have  to  find  another  place  for 
them  in  such  weather  ! 

Cornish  flanked  their  preparations,  after  all,  by 
arriving  ahead  of  his  telegram,  —  which  was  not  his 
fault,  country  telegrams  having  that  coy  way  with 
them;  but  he  came  at  a  desolate  hour,  too  late  for 

131 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

luncheon  and  too  early  for  tea.  Mrs.  Scarth  received 
him,  not  looking  her  best  —  certainly  looking  much 
older  than  he  had  expected.  All  the  Scarths  had 
stood  still  as  to  ages  in  his  mind  since  it  first  came 
in  his  way  to  know  about  them  personally. 

Shown  to  his  room,  he  opened  the  wrong  closet  first 
and  was  fairly  staggered  by  the  result  of  Engracia's 
neglect.  What  dignified  bachelor  expects  to  see  in  his 
bedroom  closet,  awaiting  him,  a  collection  of  girlish 
finery !  Poor  Engracia's  frocks  were  innocent  enough, 
all  but  one  little  piece  of  Paris  coquetry  passed  down 
from  Clare  —  the  petted  member  of  the  lot.  Its  blan- 
dishments were  spread  on  the  only  silk-padded  hanger 
right  in  front,  and  it  looked  like  a  court  beauty  in 
banishment  —  probably  deserved  —  amidst  the  hum- 
bler ladies  of  her  suite.  The  low  bosom,  the  no-sleeves, 
the  one  great  rose,  were  frivolity  itself  to  a  man  of 
imagination.  Cornish  decidedly  had  imagination  if 
he  chose  to  use  it,  but  this  was  the  last  form  of  ap- 
peal to  it  he  had  expected  to  encounter  here.  His 
ideas  of  the  Torres  Tract  centered  in  hard  times, 
death,  and  retrenchment  —  and  lo,  a  Paris  ball-gown! 
A  man  may  not  know  how  he  knows,  but  any  man  of 
Cornish's  experience  generally  does  know  when  Paris 
is  writ  all  over  a  piece  of  feminine  dry  goods. 

It  was  another  surprise  that  there  should  be  a 
grown-up  daughter  in  the  house  —  but  for  that,  at 
least,  Engracia  was  not  to  blame.  He  smiled  grimly 
while  his  bath-water  roared,  and  took  out  a  more 
eveningish  suit  which  he  had  brought  for  use  in 
San  Francisco. 

132 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

It  was  years  ago,  one  winter,  —  the  Rivingtons  were 
sailing  for  the  Bahamas,  —  that  Mr.  Rivington  had 
said,  "  I  wish  you  would  pick  out  some  books  for 
those  Scarth  children  and  get  them  out  there  about 
Christmas."  Cornish  asked  their  number  and  ages, 
feeling  much  bored.  .  .  .  "  And  while  you  are  about 
it,  some  for  the  mother,  too,  —  novels,  you  know  :  I 
know  you  do  know  1  Don't  be  condescending;  choose 
the  best." 

Letters  of  thanks  duly  followed  and  were  forwarded. 
Mr.  Rivington  had  a  habit  of  keeping  letters.  Subse- 
quently he  came  across  one  in  a  childish  hand  from 
the  little  girl  reader  on  the  Torres  Tract.  He  showed 
it  to  Cornish  as  his  reward,  and  Cornish  felt  dis- 
tinctly rewarded :  he  thought  it  a  very  unusual  letter 
from  a  child  of  that  age,  and  said  so. 

"Well,  I  wondered  if  I  were  mistaken!"  Mr.  Riving- 
ton added.  The  following  year  he  said,  "  You  suc- 
ceeded so  well  last  time,  suppose  you  try  again  ;  and 
remember  the  kiddies  are  a  year  older."  This  time 
Cornish  was  indebted  partly  to  his  own  interest  for  his 
marked  success,  and  thereafter  the  commission  was 
fixed  upon  him.  He  did  remember  that  kiddies  grew 
older,  yet  he  continued  to  see  always  a  little  girl  of 
about  twelve  watching  the  mails  at  Christmas  time 
for  that  parcel  from  New  York.  Perhaps  he  had  not 
tried  to  see  her  otherwise. 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  explain,  some  day,"  Mr.  Riv- 
ington smiled,  over  one  of  those  rewarding  little  let- 
ters which  so  pleased  his  fancy.  "  I  'm  beginning  to 
feel  too  much  of  a  fraud  in  this  business." 

133 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Oh  never ! "  said  Cornish.  "That  would  be  an  anti- 
climax and  mix  them  all  up.  Leave  it  simple  for  their 
sakes." 

Down  under  the  apple  trees,  the  women  were  dis- 
cussing him,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  Dear,  dear!  "  said  Engracia ;  "  he  must  be  mak- 
ing a  toilet.  I  am  perished  for  my  tea." 

"  He  looked  quite  capable  of  it." 

"  What  does  he  look  like  ?  " 

"  Like  a  New  Yorker  in  English  clothes  just  off 
the  Marysville  stage."  Mrs.  Scarth  laughed  softly  at 
some  recollection  not  worth  putting  into  words. 

"Now,  how  much  of  that  did  he  actually  thrust  upon 
you  ?"  Engracia  knew  her  mother's  unconscientious 
adjectives. 

"  Not  any  of  it,  in  fact.  He  is  very  nice,  but  he  won't 
be  any  less  deadly  on  that  account." 

"Why  is  he  deadly  if  he  is  nice?"  Engracia  pre- 
tended to  plead  for  the  outcast  in  English  clothes. 

"  Well,  dear,  as  I  told  you,  the  *  worm's-eye  view.1 
Once  it  was  off  in  New  York  at  a  desk ;  —  he  was  just 
a  secretary;  now  it's  here  and  it's  the  whole  thing. 
Valuation  is  Mr.  Cornish's  strong  point " 

Engracia  frowned.  "  Are  n't  we  valuable  ?  " 

"Scarcely  —  at  present.  We  are  an  'asset'  now." 

"  But  is  n't  he  going  to  have  any  imagination  about 
us,  as  Mr.  Rivington  had?" 

"  My  dear  child,  men  of  imagination  are  not  picked 
out  for  executors  and  trustees." 

"  But  there  is  another  trustee?  " 

"  A  woman :  she  will  be  guided  by  his  report." 

134 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Are  n't  we  anything  at  all?  " 

"We  always  were,  I  suppose,  a  sublime  sort  of  spec- 
ulation. The  prophets  like  your  father  have  usually 
been  without  honor  in  their  own  generation.  Mr.  Riv- 
ington  had  great  ideas  about  the  use  of  money,  when 
he  was  alive  to  make  more.  It 's  different  when  it 
comes  to  leaving  all  you  have  to  some  one  else's  dis- 
cretion. And  he  died  so  suddenly  —  no  doubt  he  ex- 
pected to  have  seen  the  end  of  this  scheme  before  his 
own  end  came.  But  even  when  he  was  living,  he  left 
the  mean  part  to  this  man." 

"What  part?" 

"  The  part  he  did  n't  like :  —  for  instance,  saying, 
'  You  are  spending  money  like  water  out  there.  You 
have  had  five  thousand  for  every  one  you  have  sent 
back '  —  and  so  forth.  Those  may  have  been  his  very 
own  words;  they  were  his  secretary's  words  when 
they  reached  us,  'per  G.  C."! 

"  'G.  C.'  was  not  mean  for  himself,  then?" 

"Hardly  any  of  us  are  mean  for  ourselves;  but 
meanness  is  meanness,  and  that  side  of  business  usu- 
ally goes  to  those  who  are  fitted  for  it.  And  so  I  say 
—  '  the  worm's-eye  view.' ' 

"  In  New  York,  it  seemed  pitiful  the  numbers  of 
young  men  confined  to  nothing  but  clerk's  stools  all 
day  and  horrid  boarding-houses  at  night.  Some  of 
them  might  have  had  '  dauntless  breasts ' ;  —  hardly 
any  of  them  could  have  been  meant  for  nothing  else 
but  the  '  worm's-eye  view.'  I  wish  you  had  not 
started  that  phrase,  mamma." 

"  I  borrowed  it." 

135 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Please  borrow  another,  then :  *  valuation '  is  bet- 
ter —  comparative  values ;  that 's  the  whole  question, 
is  n't  it?" 

"  I  think  the  question  is,  what  standard  do  you  go 
by?" 

"If  a  man's  work  keeps  him  down  to  the  com- 
mercial standard,  there  is  your  tragedy.  To  be  sure, 
he  might  take  a  day  off  now  and  then  and  see  things 
for  himself." 

" —  When  you  have  lost  the  power? — that 's  your 
tragedy :  never  to  have  a  day  off.  He  has  those 
dense,  sad  eyes ;  you  see  such  eyes  in  disappointed 
men." 

"Then  you  did  see  something  else  besides  his 
English  clothes?" 

"  Mr.  Rivington  wore  English  clothes,"  the  widow 
mused  on  the  good  past.  "  He  was  a  beautiful  old 
dandy ;  he  used  to  come  speckless  off  the  stage. 
You  must  remember  his  nice  fat  handshake." 

"I  remember  his  nice  fat  kiss.  He  liked  little 
girls."  Engracia  leaned  back  in  her  creaking  gar- 
den chair  and  put  her  finger-tips  together :  it  will  be 
seen  that  conversation  was  livelier  already  for  the 
stimulus  of  a  stranger  in  the  house.  "I  wonder  if 
he  really  could  have  bought  all  those  books  he  used 
to  send  us  ?  "  (Was  this  mental  suggestion  ?)  "  Some- 
how I  can't  fancy  his  choosing  just  those  books.  His 
might  have  been  more  costly,  but  — 

"Yes,"  the  mother  understood  —  "still  he  was  a 
very  wonderful  person ;  you  could  n't  tell  what  he 
would  do,  or  what  side-fancies  he  kept  to  himself. 

136 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

That  was  our  day-spring*  of  hope  out  here.  They 
were  a  wonderful  pair !  The  strange  thing  was,  they 
were  not  men  you  would  call  young :  as  I  say,  it  is 
youth  nowadays  that  is  *  old  and  suspicious  and 
wise.'  I  like  the  men  of  my  own  generation,  I  con- 
fess. They  knew,  at  least,  what  they  wanted  to  do." 

11 1  remember  Mr.  Rivington  a  little :  he  was  a  fas- 
cinating person  —  and  so  was  papa.  Men  like  those 
must  be  rare  in  any  generation." 

"  Yes,  yes !  it  was  a  feast  to  be  with  them.  The 
old  dining-room  heard  some  brave  talk  in  those 
days.  I  never  knew  one  pay  the  other  a  compli- 
ment. It  used  to  alarm  me,  their  after-dinner  bouts, 
contradicting  each  other — till  I  saw  them  go  off  like 
two  boys  in  the  morning.  Mr.  Rivington  used  to  say 
he  came  out  here  to  grow  young.  I  think  he  loved 
it  almost  as  we  did,  but  he  mourned  over  his  dead 
mines  up  in  the  hills.  He  wanted  to  see  their  '  bones 
washed  with  water,'  as  he  said.  Well,  he  was  a  genius. 
It  takes  genius  to  make  a  man  rich  without  making 
him  mean." 

"  Hard,  again,  on  the  men  who  have  no  genius ! 
It  takes  character  to  look  after  the  works  of  genius. 
Anyhow,  if  we  are  to  be  weighed  in  dollars  and 
cents,  we  ought  to  remember  they  are  n't  his  dollars 
and  cents." 

"  I  shall  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Scarth.  It  is  doubt- 
ful if  she  could  remember  anything  but  the  long 
strain  of  "  per  G.  C."  at  her  back.  All  costs  of  main- 
tenance, their  little  water-system,  which  made  the 
garden  of  her  joy  —  barns  and  fences,  painting, 

137 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

plumbing  —  many  little  details  much  more  intimate, 
had  to  her  knowledge  passed  under  his  inspection 
for  years,  in  the  shape  of  vouchers  labeled  "  Torres 
Tract."  Scarth  never  worried  about  G.  C.  It  was 
department  work,  each  man  in  his  place,  and  Riv- 
ington  smiled  on  both.  He  knew  that  Scarth  knew 
his  own  job  too  well  to  be  thrown  out  of  his  stride 
by  the  twitch  of  the  rein.  When  needful  he  took  his 
head  and  ploughed  along. 

"  I  am  glad  his  first  meal  is  tea.  We  are  always 
presentable  at  tea,"  Engracia  remarked  incautiously. 

"  You  are  not.  Look  at  your  skirt  1 "  Mrs.  Scarth 
pointed  to  the  wreck  of  a  clean  pique  with  marks  of 
dog-paws  evident  to  the  most  casual  eye. 

"  I  did  n't  allude  to  clothes,"  said  Engracia  meekly. 

"  I  did.  I  wish  you  'd  go  and  change  that  skirt." 

"I  did  change  it  —  before  luncheon.  Dog-paws, 
dear  mother,  are  liable  to  occur  at  any  time." 

"You  are  so  weak  about  him." 

"  He  was  burying  a  bone  in  the  cosmos-bed.  Had 
to  apologize ! " 

"  You  should  n't  let  him  do  it  that  way.  Step  on 
his  hind  paws  when  he  jumps  up  on  you." 

"  His  front  ones  get  there  first.  It  was  such  a  good 
sign  ;  he  has  n't  been  bad  for  so  long." 

"  Please  do  as  I  ask  you ! " 

"  This  is  my  next  to  last  —  I  must  keep  one  for 
Sunday  morning." 

"  Dress  for  dinner,  then." 

"  At  five  o'clock  —  in  black  voile  ?  " 

"  Have  n't  you  anything  left  that 's  white  ?  " 
138 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Mamsy,  it's  such  devastating  weather.  Don't 
let 's  talk  of  clothes  !  —  Come,  Bran  :  laziest  man  in 
the  world  1  —  Nobody  loves  us  ;  we  go." 

Cornish  saw  them  romping  down  to  the  vegetable 
garden  where  a  bed  of  zinnias  rustled  and  drank  sun- 
shine. He  had  just  stepped  out  looking  for  signs  of 
life.  The  white  dog  and  white  girl  mingled  with  the 
colors  of  the  zinnias  and  passed  out  of  sight. 

When  the  question  of  clothes  got  upon  the  girl's 
nerves  it  brought  out  all  the  temper  she  possessed. 
She  could  have  borne  the  doctrine  of  their  necessity 
preached  by  any  one  but  her  mother  who  could 
preach  in  a  so  much  better  way.  But  her  own  side 
did  not  suffer  by  any  means,  in  the  argument  that 
invariably  ensued.  "  The  first  thing  any  ordinary 
American  climber  learns  is  how  to  dress :  —  ergo, 
dress  is  cheap.  Leave  it  to  the  cheap  —  *  lest  we  lose 
our  Edens,  thou  and  I,' "  Armed  with  a  lucky  quo- 
tation, she  would  come  off  victor  for  the  moment; 
but  mothers  have  the  weight  of  custom  at  their  backs. 
This  mother  feared  that  her  child's  precocious  phi- 
losophy might  degenerate  into  slackness  or  mark 
her  as  queer  —  fatal  word. 

"  Between  those  who  are  smart  in  this  world  and 
those  who  are  not  smart,  a  great  gulf  is  fixed  "  was 
another  way  of  begging  the  question.  "  We  are  not 
born  smart  and  we  can't  afford  the  experts  who  thrust 
it  on  you.  As  a  sheer  personal  achievement  for  you 
and  me,  mamma,  it  would  kill  all  the  rest.  Can't  you 
believe  in  the  things  that  really  matter,  for  your  child, 
as  you  did  for  yourself  ?  " 

139 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  There  are  no  more  men  nowadays  who  can  see 
the  soul  of  a  girl  if  she  does  n't  know  how  to  dress." 

"Ah,  I  thought  it  was  that,"  came  the  bitter  reply. 
"  You  are  afraid  I  may  never  be  married.  —  If  that 's 
true,  what  you  say,  I  don't  want  to  be.  I  should  think, 
mamsy,  you  'd  begin  to  look  at  these  things  from 
your  own  son's  side  —  clothes  and  what  they  lead  to. 
Tom  has  got  the  heart-ache  of  his  young  life,  I 
should  n't  wonder,  seeing  Clare  on  our  steps  dressed 
out  in  all  that  witchery.  Dressed  as  I  am  mostly,  I 
think  he  could  have  borne  up." 

"I  don't  care  how  it's  done,  but  when  the  right 
man  comes,  I  want  him  to  succumb." 

"Well,  for  frankness  I  've  seldom  seen  the  equal 
of  this  mother  of  mine  1 " 

"  I  believe  in  frankness  between  a  mother  of  my 
sense  and  a  daughter  of  yours.  I  believe  in  marriage 
too." 

"You'll  never  see  me  married  —  to  a  man  who 
looks  at  my  clothes.  I  won't  look  at  him,  that 's  cer- 
tain." 

Himself,  seated  in  Scarth's  chair  at  Scarth's  desk 
in  the  office  a  few  moments  before  dinner,  heard  a 
scuffle  on  the  stairs.  Bran,  more  or  less  head-over- 
heels,  burst  through  the  curtain  smiling  broadly  on 
the  company,  and  presented,  as  it  were,  Engracia, 
my  best  girl.  Everybody  smiled.  Engracia  behind 
him,  missing  the  joke,  came  in  with  her  part  rather 
stiffly.  She  saw  no  occasion  for  so  much  smiling. 

The  black  voile  with  its  half-sleeves  and  transpar- 

140 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ent  yoke  conveyed  as  much  of  youth  and  future 
summers  as  a  dress  of  that  character  might :  Cousin 
Anna  had  clothed  her  tender  pity  for  the  girl's  first 
sorrow  in  this  appealing  little  frock.  It  appealed  to 
Cornish  in  a  different  and  grimmer  fashion. 

Valuation,  —  Caroline  had  said  well,  —  perhaps 
undervaluation,  was  his  errand  there.  He  knew  this 
family's  circumstances  too  intimately  to  miss  a  single 
point  in  their  outlook,  sordidly  speaking.  He  had 
thought  often  of  their  isolation,  he  had  fed  their  grow- 
ing children's  minds  with  books  after  his  own  bookish 
fancy ;  he  understood  the  ambition  for  good  schools, 
the  separations,  the  expensive  journeys  it  entailed, 
but  there  must  have  been  sacrifices  —  dress,  he  sup- 
posed would  have  been  the  first  one ;  it  did  not  look 
like  it.  His  city-bred  eye  could  not  miss  the  style,  the 
"  class,"  expressed  in  that  admirable  little  dinner- 
frock  in  which  Cousin  Anna  had  succeeded  but  too 
well.  Here  was  this  girl  in  a  house  on  the  Marysville 
road  —  a  house  builded  on  sand — on  silt,  to  be  exact 
—  dressed  as  Mrs.  Rivington  herself  might  have  been 
dressed  on  such  an  occasion  with  no  discredit  to  her 
fortunes. 

Extraordinary  creatures  of  one  idea  women  were! 
They  cling  to  dress  as  the  last  plank  in  poverty  to 
save  their  self-respect.  In  a  way,  it  was  heroic,  but 
was  it  honest?  He  was  come  to  break  up  this  child's 
home  or  to  reduce  its  incomes  to  the  breaking  —  heart- 
breaking-point. Who  was  to  pay  the  difference  ?  A 
young  brother,  perhaps,  with  his  life,  liberty,  and  per- 
sonal happiness.  He  had  known  in  his  own  youth 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

the  cost  of  such  sacrifices.  Or  must  she  turn  out  and 
earn  her  own  frocks?  She  was  of  the  old  type  —  the 
protected  product  of  special  conditions  and  highly 
wrought  influences,  interesting  but  infinitely  tragic 
as  he  saw  her  —  as  undoubtedly  she  did  not  see  her- 
self. Her  eyes,  dark-lashed,  deeply  intelligent,  thought- 
ful, and  doubtless  gentle  eyes,  met  his  with  a  caustic, 
measuring,  perfectly  realized  hostility.  "We  have 
nothing  for  each  other :  let  us  pass  with  civility  and 
a  wide  berth." 

Not  Bran,  however.  He  conned  the  stranger  with 
careful  sniffings,  approved  the  bouquet,  and  sat  down 
against  his  well-clad  leg  and  left  white  hairs  on  his 
trousers.  The  women  chid  him,  and  they  all  went  out 
to  dinner. 

Dangerously  carrying  are  clear  young  tones  in  a 
silent  summer  night.  He  had  asked  for  his  candle 
early  (a  figure  of  speech,  for  candles  at  Roadside 
were  kept  on  bedroom  tables),  and  Tom  had  gone  up 
with  him  and  advised  leaving  his  door  open  for  cool- 
ness. He  did  not  go  to  bed,  but  sat  and  smoked  by 
the  window.  Moon  had  just  turned  off  the  lawn-sprin- 
klers —  a  silence  falling  on  the  garden  brought  voices 
to  his  ear  speaking  on  the  piazza,  steps  below. 

"I'm  so  thankful  he  Js  gone !  How  many  evenings, 
I  wonder,  are  we  to  go  through  like  this?"  Cornish 
stepped  to  his  door  and  softly  closed  it.  Engracia 
went  on  chattering  to  her  mother,  silly  with  the  sense 
of  pressure  removed.  "  It  was  suttenly  hateful  of  me 
to  cut  and  run  this  afternoon,  but  I  has  my  fits !  Now, 

142 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

if  I  had  n't  on  my  very  best,  I  'd  whip  into  the  laun- 
dry and  wash  out  dog-spots,  just  to  please  the  mis- 
tress of  this  house  and  the  mamsy  of  my  heart  1"  — 
followed  a  hasty  caress. 

"  Leave  it  in  there,  anyhow ;  you  can't  wear  it 
again,  and  if  Moon  is  n't  too  busy  he  may  see  it  and 
take  the  hint." 

Moon  was  busy  in  his  kitchen  till  late,  baking  fruit- 
cake in  a  slow  oven.  (Nobody  wanted  fruit-cake,  but 
he  considered  it  the  proper  thing  to  have.)  Half  an 
hour  later  he  hung  it  immaculate  (not  the  fruit-cake) 
on  the  knob  of  Engracia's  door.  The  Chinese  voice, 
that  can  screech  and  cackle  like  a  wild  animal,  has 
inflections  also  that  speak  of  tender  feelings  we  know 
they  never  can  convey  in  English  words. 

"  Good  girl,"  he  crooned  to  himself,  going  down 
the  passage;  "heap,  heap  good  —  all  same  boss! 
Nobody  come  to  marry."  Passing  another  door,  he 
grinned  meaningly :  "  Plenty  lich  —  too  ol',  too  ol'  1" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"  THEY,"  as  the  men  were  conveniently  styled  by  the 
women  of  the  house,  went  off  early  after  breakfast 
talking  of  affairs. 

"You  will  surely  be  home  to  tea?"  Mrs.  Scarth 
detained  her  son  to  ask.  "  Do  be !  Moon  is  making  —  " 

"  Not  likely,"  Tom  interrupted ;  he  was  in  a  hurry. 
"  Don't  wait  for  us."  Whereupon  the  mistress  has- 
tened to  the  kitchen  to  save  Moon  the  trouble  of 
making  fresh  apple-cake  with  nuts  on  top.  He  made 
it  just  the  same  1 

About  four,  Engracia  went  upstairs  to  take  her 
robes  out  of  the  borrowed  closet,  and  fell  into  the 
snare  of  a  precious  old  Meredith  novel  lying  in  plain 
sight  on  G.  C.'s  table.  There  were  several  reasons 
why  she  had  missed  reading  it  before.  She  stood  one 
hour  entranced,  thinking  each  moment  would  be  the 
last.  Buggy-wheels  drove  up  —  she  heard  no  more 
than  the  dead.  "  They "  were  indoors  and  he  was 
coming  up  —  in  new  Putmon  boots  that  massacred 
the  redwood  stairs  —  before  her  position  dawned 
upon  her.  She  shut  the  book  on  a  button  —  a  loose 
one  she  had  been  fingering  in  the  excitement  of  grap- 
pling at  high  speed  those  subtle,  packed  first  chap- 
ters of  "  Richard  Feverel."  Whipping  up  her  muslins 
from  the  bed  and  with  Clare's  little  Paris  rag  borne 
high  before  her  on  its  hanger,  she  sailed  out  of  the 

144 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

door  and  almost  into  Cornish's  arms.  He  made  way 
for  her  and  her  load  of  frippery,  sarcastically;  her 
face  was  one  high  blush.  Clothes  again,  plague  on 
them !  —  she  did  not  say,  "  Books  again  ! " —  she  for- 
gave herself  cribbing  out  of  other  people's  private 
mangers.  Her  head  was  still  full  of  the  opening,  rich 
with  promise,  she  had  left,  and  half  her  fine  color 
was  pure  thrill  from  its  bitter,  matchless  workmanship. 

"  Excuse  me  !  I  was  just  taking  my  things  out  of 
your  other  closet :  awfully  stupid  of  me  to  leave  them 
there." 

"  Sorry !  I  have  plenty  of  room  —  more  than  I  have 
at  home." 

"  Well,  I  've  got  them  now,  thanks."  She  hurried 
down  the  passage. 

He  emptied  his  pockets  of  letters,  and  piled  them 
neatly  on  the  table.  His  favorite  of  all  Meredith's  lay 
where  he  had  left  it,  yet  it  had  been  shut  lately  at  a 
new  place.  Between  the  leaves  some  hurried  reader 
had  dropped  a  small,  smoked-pearl  button  which  did 
not  otherwise  define  itself  in  his  mind  except  as  a 
mate  for  those  on  a  certain  young  lady's  morning 
gingham.  So  much  for  circumstantial  evidence. 

Subsequently  he  went  downstairs  to  dinner,  with 
his  case  complete.  Engracia  met  him  all  unconscious, 
dressed  as  usual  for  the  evening  in  her  one  and  only. 
He  smiled  sadly  and  offered  her  his  book :  "  You  will 
find,"  he  said,  "  your  book-mark  in  its  place." 

She  had  blushed  at  sight  of  the  volume,  and  as  she 
took  it  the  guilty  button  dropped  to  the  floor  between 
them.  He  restored  it  ceremoniously  :  "A  vous  ?  " 

H5 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

She  blushed  deeper,  but  rallied  enough  to  say, 
"Thanks,  Mr.  Sherlock  Holmes.  Very  clever!  But 
could  n't  you  have  sup-pressed  the  button?" 

"  But  don't  we  need  our  buttons?  I  need  all  mine." 

"  Personally,  I  don't  care  to  be  tracked  about  the 
house  like  Peggoty  by  a  trail  of  buttons.  One  crime 
at  once  is  enough." 

"Who  wouldn't  rather  read  Meredith  than  sew 
on  his  buttons  ?  " 

"  Her  buttons  ?  " 

"Where  is  the  difference?" 

"  You  must  have  got  some  new  ideas  about  us,  if 
you  don't  see  any  —  us,  I  mean  ! " 

"  I  mean  you,  certainly." 

"Well!"  she  cried.  "Then  you  don't  think  our 
lives  depend  on  our  —  buttons  ?  " 

"  No ;  nor  what  you  sew  them  on — though  I  grant" 
(he  glanced  at  the  invidious  black  voile)  "they  are 
very  charming ! " 

"  You  really  think  a  woman's  salvation  does  not 
depend  on  clothes  —  nor  even  her  'hopes  of  hap- 
piness'?" 

"  Happiness  !  clothes  are  the  destruction  of  your 
happiness  —  American  women.  You  have  n't  the 
hardihood  that  supports  an  Englishwoman  under 
any  old  thing  she  chooses  to  put  on  if  she  knows 
she 's  a  lady.  You  never  know — you  ask  your  clothes. 
You  pin  your  confidence  on  a  thing  like  that  you  were 
carrying  out  of  my  room  this  afternoon  —  I  thought 
to  myself,  *  There  goes  the  banner  of  the  Faith  ! ' ' 

"  What  thing  ? "  cried  Engracia,  with  triumph  in 
146 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

her  eye.   She  warmed  toward  him  suddenly  as  an  un- 
expected ally. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  French,  that  ensign  you  carried 
before  you  ?  I  saw  your  utter  prostration  in  the  very 
way  you  held  it." 

"  That  belonged  to  my  debutante  cousin !  Don't 
suspect  me  of  that !  You  don't  suppose  we  wear  Doucet 
gowns  in  this  house  unless  they  are  flung  us  by 
our  rich  relations  !  Clare  has  *  banners '  like  that  to 
burn.  And  I  assure  you  she  does  n't  worship  them 
blind !  I  forget  what  was  the  matter  with  this  !  But, 
oh,"  she  continued,  "  do  say  these  things  sometime 
when  mamma  can  hear  you !  I  have  a  point  to  make. 
I  shall  overcome  her  in  those  very  words." 

He  was  flattered  by  the  greater  ease  of  speech 
between  them.  "  Do  you  differ  on  the  question  of  — 
buttons?" 

"  I  can't  explain ;  but  do  just  let  her  hear  you ! 
That  is,  if  you  really  mean  it  ?  " 

"You  can't  imagine  how  much  I  mean  it,"  he  an- 
swered seriously.  —  "  But  —  about  this  book  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  must  n't!  it's  coals  of  fire,  you  know  — " 

"That  isn't  what  I  mean  !  But  it's  much  too  old 
for  you — and  it  has"  —  he  hastened  to  say  as  she 
tried  to  interrupt  —  "a  mistaken,  a  wanton  ending. 
Have  you  ever  read  what  Stevenson  said  about 
it?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  was  in  the  midst  of  that  scene  he  calls 
the  most  exquisite  prose  in  the  language,  when  you 
caught  me  '  with  the  goods.'  " 

"  You  must  finish  it  now,  of  course.  But  it  will  make 

H7 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

you  wretched ;  it 's  wisdom  of  a  sort  you  might  have 
waited  for." 

"  Mamma  talks  about  it,  too,  the  same  way,  but 
I  know  she  would  let  me  read  it  now :  we  did  n't 
happen  to  possess  the  book. — You  haven't  finished 
it  yourself,  I  Jm  afraid." 

"  Long  ago  —  I  read  it  periodically  "  —  "  when  I 
am  blue,"  he  might  have  added,  "and  slightly  dis- 
couraged." Failure  loves  to  muse  on  the  great  trage- 
dies of  failure. 

"Do  you  enjoy  being  wretched,  too?" 
"  I  enjoy  truth  —  which  is  much  the  same  thing." 
She  bore  away  her  treasure,  to  find,  on  opening  it, 
her  own  name  over  his  on  the  fly-leaf  with  "Miss" 
before  it  and  "  from  "  beneath.  There  were  also  two 
lines  which  he  had  tried  to  erase — presumably  writ- 
ten sometime  before :  — 

"Life  is  not  beauty  —  it  is  found  in  vain, 
But  beauty  is  the  broken  heart  of  life." 

A  strange  person  —  who  might  be  strangely  com- 
panionable would  he  but  let  himself  be  so.  How  had 
she  let  herself  go  so  recklessly,  she  wondered  —  prob- 
ably the  bad  effects  of  "  Richard  Feverel." 

It  was  the  same  evening,  a  clammy  heat  in  the  air. 
The  men  were  in  the  office  smoking  and  perspiring 
over  that  old  question,  how  to  stop  leaks  in  expen- 
diture without  making  the  process  cost  more  than  the 
leaks. 

"  I  don't  understand  this  road  account  for  1903. 
Have  we  such  a  mileage  as  that  to  keep  up?" 

148 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Most  of  that  work  was  done  on  a  county  road 
that  crosses  us,"  Tom  replied. 

"Don't  your  counties  repair  their  own  roads?" 

"  Generally  speaking,  they  should,  if  they  knew 
how.  We  cut  up  that  road  ourselves,  hauling  in  win- 
ter on  narrow  tires.  My  father  thought  we  ought  to 
leave  it  at  least  as  good  as  we  found  it." 

"  Does  the  company  do  its  own  teaming?" 

"  We  hire  the  farmers  in  winter.  You  can't  persuade 
'em  narrow  tires  are  harder  on  their  horses  as  well  as 
on  the  roads." 

"  Can't  you  make  it  compulsory  to  use  broad  tires  ?  " 

"  We  do,  and  they  kick,  although  we  buy  the  tires." 

"  I  noticed  that  item,"  said  Cornish  dryly.  "  I  sup- 
posed there  was  an  answer." 

"  That 's  the  answer." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Scarth  on  the  front  porch, 
speaking  low  to  Engracia,  "  Tom  could  cure  himself 
of  that  habit  of  wagging  one  foot  when  he  talks." 

"  I  should  think,"  Engracia  murmured  from  the 
steps,  "  when  a  boy  is  being  sweated  like  that,  he 
might  be  allowed  to  wag  both  feet  if  it  helped  any." 

"  I  could  see  him  so  clearly,  all  those  years  while 
he  was  gone,  and  when  he  came  home  the  first  look 
told  me  he  was  all  right:  —  now  I  see  his  little  blem- 
ishes again." 

"  We  saw  him,  when  he  was  n't  here.  Now  we 
watch  his  feet." 

"  Not  you  —  only  his  mother,  with  the  eye  of  a 
groundling.  Why  should  n't  I  hate  it  in  others ;  I  'm 
so  tired  of  it  in  myself  1 " 

149 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  You  don't  have  it  always ;  and  boys  had  manners 
in  your  time.  Mothers  are  the  drill-sergeants ;  they 
have  to  nag  raw  troops." 

"  No,  no ;  Tom  is  n't  raw.  I  Jm  always  wrong  about 
Tom.  When  you  get  a  boy  of  that  type,  sane  and 
clever  and  austere,  and  yet  gentle  and  charitable,  — 
maintaining  himself  through  all  pressure  absolutely, 

—  you  can't  expect  the  attitudes  of  body  to  match 
his  soul.  But  I  don't  demand  it  so  much  for  myself 

—  it 's  for  '  when  thou  goest  a-wooing,  Philip,  my 
king!'" 

"  If  he  woos  the  right  girl,  she  '11  know  what  he  is, 
or  she  '11  deserve  to  lose  him." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  nothing  so  heart-rending  as  to 
see  a  perfectly  splendid  man  fail  to  win  the  woman 
he  loves  just  because  of  the  lack  of  charm.  The  *  little 
less'  or  the  *  little  more.'" 

"Well,  mamsy,  we  can't  lick  it  into  him  —  nor  into 
her,  to  make  her  feel  what  some  other  girl  might  feel 
without  so  much  worry.  It's  on  the  lap  of  the  gods." 

Again  the  voice  of  Cornish  from  inside.  "  What 
about  this  Dixie  Canon  flume  ?  That 's  a  new  one  on 
me.  I  don't  recall  any  Dixie  Canon  flume  account?" 

"  There  has  n't  been  any  up  to  now.  Father  made 
a  deal  with  those  fellows  who  live  up  there:  they 
were  stealing  water  right  along.  He  gave  them  a 
little  more  and  the  line  to  keep  up.  We  keep  one 
ditch-tender,  but  one  is  not  near  enough." 

"What  is  your  greatest  trouble  up  there?" 

"  Winter  —  twenty  feet  of  snow ;  ditches  clogged ; 
flumes  loaded  with  ice ;  trees  blown  across  our  wires. 

150 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

The  men  who  live  there  have  nothing  to  do  all  winter 
but  watch  for  trouble.  What  they  do  is  done  on  the 
spot  at  the  right  time." 

"Why  can't  this  arrangement  go  on?" 

"There  have  always  been  objections  to  it.  We 
don't  sell  them  water,  but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing, 
and  they  use  it  to  break  the  law." 

"Washing  gold?" 

"  In  a  small  way,  of  course :  poor  men  who  spent 
all  they  had  on  their  placers  —  which  the  law  has 
shut  down ;  we  know  how  it  is  ourselves.  They  have 
never  admitted  the  justice  of  it.  No  one  admits  it  up 
there,  or  they  couldn't  stayl  Every  house  on  those 
roads  holds  a  friend  and  almost  every  house  holds  a 
spy.  If  you  can't  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  your- 
self, word  flies  like  touching  the  button.  Before  you 
get  where  anything  could  be  seen,  water  's  off  —  all 
quiet  in  the  gulches." 

"  If  they  steal  water  anyhow,  and  we  can't  afford 
to  keep  up  that  line  with  men  of  our  own,  I  don't  see 
but  they  have  us  on  the  hip." 

"  They  certainly  have !  We  need  n't  take  any  equiv- 
alent for  what  they  steal,  though.  It  has  been  brought 
down  to  facts  quite  lately  that  they  don't  confine 
themselves  to  their  own  ground.  They  poach  on  the 
owners  next  door  in  Plumas  County.  Mr.  Ludwell, 
president  of  a  big  power  company  in  the  city,  called 
my  attention  to  it  when  I  was  down.  He  sees  our 
difficulty,  but  he  thinks  we  are  a  bit  too  neighborly 
with  our  friends  up  there.  It  looks  so." 

"  It  seems  to  have  been  a  tacit  kind  of  friendship  ?" 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Yes,  rather  too  tacit.  It's  bad  to  have  friends 
you  don't  care  to  own ;  —  good  fellows  enough,  but 
we  are  n't  in  that  business.  My  father  never  liked  it. 
But,  as  you  say,  they  had  us  cinched.  If  we  cut  'em 
off  and  make  our  own  repairs,  they  will  take  the  hint 
fast  enough.  We  are  very  exposed  up  there  —  a  long, 
weak  line." 

"What  would  your  father  have  done  about  it 
finally,  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Cut  off  that  line  entirely." 

"  Are  n't  there  damage  suits  against  water-sellers 
for  non-delivery?" 

"  We  use  that  water  ourselves  —  irrigation.  If  the 
placers  should  be  worked  again,  —  I  mean  our  own 
placers,  —  we  'd  need  it  there  first ;  use  it  all,  then 
send  it  down  with  the  silt  it  carries  onto  our  company 
lands.  My  father  laid  out  those  linked  areas  I  showed 
you  to-day,  for  his  silt  exhibit.  He  was  just  getting 
to  it  —  basin  irrigation  on  the  Egyptian  plan :  the  ap- 
plication would  differ  here  in  detail,  of  course,  but  the 
value  of  the  silt  is  the  same.  It  was  that  he  wanted  to 
prove  to  his  kindergartners." 

"Who  were  they?" 

"  Oh,  his  farmers." 

"  I  know  the  general  scheme,"  said  Cornish,  speak- 
ing carefully. 

"  He  wanted  to  handle  it  himself  first,  and  show 
them." 

"  And  if  we  find  that  we  can't  afford  to  show  them, 
what  do  we  do  with  that  ditch-line?" 

"Keep  on  dickering  with  our  illicit  neighbors,  or 
152 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

fix  it  ourselves  and  cut  off  their  water  and  risk  repris- 
als, or  abandon  our  ten  years'  work  on  those  lands 
we  have  now  under  cultivation.  The  nut  orchards  are 
a  prime  investment ;  hay  is  always  high ;  hops  just 
beginning :  hops  look  good  to  me." 

"  Your  hop-ovens  cost  enough." 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  was  in  Korea." 

"You  learned  a  good  bit  about  irrigation  out 
there?" 

"  Yes,  on  this  same  system  —  flooding." 

"  You  would  hardly  undertake  to  fill  your  father's 
place  in  this  scheme?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  I  might :  the  work  is 
all  laid  out  and  I  am  rather  confident  I  could  carry  it 
through." 

"  To  be  frank  with  you,  Scarth,  I  have  not  talked 
with  a  single  engineer  —  and  I  talked  to  a  good  many 
before  I  came  out  here  —  who  did  not  say  basin  irri- 
gation for  this  valley  full  of  farmers  is  a  dream.  There 
are  too  many  conflicting  interests  and  people's  par- 
ties and  crank  legislation  and  voters  who  don't  know 
what  it  means —  nobody  knows ;  and  everybody  would 
be  afraid  of  it.  You  would  need  a  monarchy  to  do  it, 
and  men  as  cheap  as  —  silt." 

"  I  had  supposed  that  Mr.  Rivington  talked  with 
engineers  — others  than  my  father." 

"  Mr.  Rivington  was  a  monarchy,  so  far  as  this 
tract  is  concerned ;  there  was  no  one  to  limit  him  but 
himself,  and  he  did  not  look  at  the  scheme  commer- 
cially alone.  It  was  one  of  his  humanitarian  hobbies 
—  monarchs  have  them.  But  in  his  will  these  lands 

153 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

are  classed  with  other  investments  which  are  expected 
to  give  an  account  of  themselves  in  dividends.  I  am 
frank  with  you.  There  is  a  beautiful  directness  about 
your  father's  scheme  which  would  appeal  to  any  one 
who  knows  what  your  fight  out  here  means,  between 
the  two  great  interests.  Our  placers  did  not  come 
cheap,  and  there  they  lie  —  the  real  wealth  of  the 
grant." 

"  Nothing  comes  cheap.  My  father  thought  it  would 
pay  to  teach  the  miners  and  the  farmers  how  to  work 
together  —  the  waste  of  one  should  be  the  wealth  of 
the  other.  The  saying  is,  *  as  rich  as  mud.'  Volumes 
have  been  written  by  the  great  irrigation  men  on  the 
value  of  mud." 

"It  was  a  cosmic  idea,  of  course,  and  no  wonder  it 
captured  a  man  like  Rivington.  He  had  read  on  the 
subject  largely  himself.  He  saw  it  in  the  light  of  his- 
tory—  which  misleads,  you  know.  We  are  not  a 
British  Protectorate — and  men  were  cheap  in  Egypt 
of  the  Ptolemys.  For  this  tract  alone,  I  've  no  doubt 
the  money  could  be  raised,  but  I  have  small  hope 
that  the  State  would  ever  help  us  any,  on  a  general 
scheme  for  the  whole  valley.  San  Francisco  would 
kick,  to  begin  with.  She  does  n't  put  money  into  the 
valley  —  she  wants  the  valley  to  put  money  into  her. 
But  we  need  go  no  further  than  the  fact  that  it  is 
speculating  on  a  heroic  scale  with  the  fortune  of  heirs 
who  are  minors,  though  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Rivington 
could  be  talked  over :  that's  what  I  meant  with  regard 
to  this  tract  alone." 

"I  don't  think  my  father  would  have  believed  in 
154 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

booming  it  —  he  believed  in  it  commercially,  grant- 
ing time." 

"  Shall  we  have  another  go  at  Dixie  Canon,  or  have 
we  done  enough  for  to-night?" 

"  Just  as  you  say  —  it's  not  late,  though." 

"You  could  not  do  much  this  year,  could  you?" 

"I  can't  answer  that  question  till  I've  been  up 
there  again.  I  should  like  to  take  you  up  with  me." 

"  I  should  like  to  go." 

"And  there  is  a  bridge —  on  the  Rough-and-Ready 
Road :  it 's  been  boarded  up  a  year,  waiting  for  repairs. 
The  county  ought  to  fix  it,  but  the  county  is  slow  —  and 
poor.  And  it 's  a  fact,  we  use  it  more  than  any  of  our 
neighbors.  I  'd  like  to  see  it  in  commission  again  — 
if  only  to  save  some  one  else,  perhaps,  what  that 
barricade  cost  us." 

Cornish  raised  his  eyes  gravely.  "  Six  hours,"  said 
Tom,  "racing  against  time,  when  they  brought  my 
father  down.  That  delay,  they  said,  was  fatal.  Still," 
he  added  proudly,  "that  was  not  a  company  affair." 

"The  company  could  not  afford  to  lose  your  father," 
said  Cornish,  speaking  with  the  effort  it  costs  one 
man  to  enter  upon  questions  of  feeling  with  another, 
but  the  intention  was  as  deliberate  as  the  words  were 
formal.  "  His  death  was  a  personal  blow  to  Mr.  Riv- 
ington.  Your  telegram  with  the  announcement  was 
found  in  his  private  diary  the  morning  he  was  killed. 
There  was  no  entry  for  the  day  —  only  the  words  in 
pencil :  — 

" '  Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note  may  still  be  done.' " 

155 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Cornish  had  not  expected  any  answer  from  Tom  — 
he  merely  wished  him  to  know  how  his  father's  friend 
and  co-worker  had  regarded  the  task  they  left  un- 
done, both  removed  within  a  day  of  each  other.  He 
looked  out  through  the  open  door  onto  the  verandah. 
The  lawn-sprinklers  were  softly  misting  in  the  dark. 
No  wind  stirred  in  the  great  oak's  leafy  chambers 
where  its  tenants  were  nested  for  the  night.  The 
women's  voices  came  in  low  regular  murmurs  from 
the  steps. 

"  Delicious,  those  oleander  blossoms  on  this  damp 
air !  Your  mother's  little  garden  smells  like  a  court 
in  Sicily.  What  luxury  that  would  mean  in  New  Eng- 
land —  oleanders,  like  lilacs,  along  a  dooryard  fence." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  lilacs  would  mean  more 
luxury  here." 

"  I  think  we  must  fix  that  bridge,"  said  Cornish, 
rising.  "  I  suppose  the  county  will  do  something  to- 
ward it?  Is  that  a  job  you  would  feel  equal  to  boss- 
ing?" 

"  If  the  county  will  have  me.  It  has  its  own  engi- 
neer." 

"  Did  we  help  to  elect  him  ?  " 

"  We  helped  the  other  man ! " 

Cornish  laughed  at  this  new  hitch  in  the  narrow 
little  local  game.  "Is  that  why  the  bridge  wasn't 
fixed  in  a  hurry?" 

"  I  could  n't  say  —  but  if  we  do  it  ourselves,  we  can 
do  it  as  we  like  and  when  we  like." 

"  Go  ahead,  then,  and  do  it.  It  does  n't  mean  a  new 
bridge,  does  it?" 

156 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Oh,  not  as  bad  as  that.  Fifteen  hundred  or  so  will 
make  it  safe  for  another  twenty  years." 

"  Think  of  a  bridge  in  Europe  built  to  last  twenty 
years  1 " 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"How  does  it  go,  boy  dear?"  Mrs.  Scarth  detained 
her  son  for  a  hasty  word  at  bedtime.  "  Does  n't  he  say 
anything  definite  ?  " 

"  He  asks  questions,  mostly,"  Tom  answered. 

"  Does  he  seem  at  all  pleased  with  the  way  things 
look?" 

"  He  has  n't  said  so :  —  don't  worry,  mother,"  he 
added  as  her  face  fell.  "  Good-night." 

She  ignored  his  dismissal.  "You  don't  even  know 
if  they  will  want  you  to  stay?" 

"  It 's  only  the  first  day,  remember.  He 's  not  at  all 
hard  to  get  on  with." 

She  made  him  stoop  for  her  good-night  kiss  and 
released  him ;  well  she  knew  that  vague  look  in 
his  young  tired  eyes  which  showed  that  he  did  not 
hear. 

Upstairs  she  and  Engracia  talked  long  in  the  girl's 
room.  The  couch  at  the  bed's  foot  was  heaped  with 
those  wretched  little  muslins  —  Clare's  pink  creation 
trailed  from  its  hanger  on  the  lamp-bracket.  "  I  did  n't 
put  them  away,"  she  apologized.  "  We  must  think 
of  some  one  to  give  them  to." 

"You  may  be  very  glad  of  them  yourself  some 
day,"  her  mother  answered  significantly. 

"  Not  those  clothes  ! " 

"They  can  be  made  over  —  " 
158 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Ah,  I  did  not  mean  the  fashions!"  Engracia 
murmured.  Caroline  did  not  misunderstand. 

"  Neither  did  I.  Luxuries  of  feeling  are  not  for  us, 
dear.  We  must  learn  to  save,  at  the  cost  of  everything 
but  decency." 

Engracia  hesitated  a  second :  "  Are  we  so  exces- 
sively poor,  mamma?" 

"  That  depends.  Would  you  like  to  go  back  East 
with  me  and  live  with  Uncle  Benjamin?" 

"And  accept  our  living  from  him?" 

"  I  have  about  enough  for  us  to  dress  on.  It  would 
be  a  gracious  and  a  kindly  living,  and  I  don't  sup- 
pose he  would  ever  feel  it." 

"  But  you  would  feel  it?" 

"  I  should  like  death  better ;  that  's  not  the  question. 
Tom  will  be  where  his  work  is ;  it 's  only  my  girl,  my 
sensitive  girl,  I  worry  about." 

"  *  McCarthy  r'ared  them  very  peevish/  "  Engracia 
quoted  as  one  way  of  looking  at  this  boasted  sensi- 
tiveness. Hesitating,  she  asked,  "  Was  there  nothing 
at  all  left  for  you,  mamma  ?  It  is  a  question  of  you." 

"  My  dear,  we  could  n't  live  on  papa's  salary  from 
the  company,  and  educate  our  children." 

"  How  did  we  live,  then?  Are  we  in  debt?" 

Caroline  shook  her  head.  "I  will  tell  you  —  some- 
time :  it 's  a  long  story  and  I  must  tell  it  right,  now  that 
I  'm  the  only  one  left  to  tell  it.  It  was  the  one  hitch 
between  us  —  the  only  time  we  ever  failed  to  see  an 
important  question  the  same  way." 

"We  mustn't  postpone  things,"  said  Engracia. 
"You  have  always  said  I  saw  things  as  he  did." 

159 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Yes,  you  do ;  —  but  you  ought  to  go  to  bed,  dear." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed :  it  Js  exciting  to  have 
one 's  executioner  in  the  house  —  at  meals,  and  sit- 
ting around  —  so  friendly-like,  just  as  if  he  weren't 
going  to  sell  us  up  to-morrow." 

"  Tom  says  he  is  easy  to  get  on  with." 

"  Tom  gets  on  with  anybody ;  we  're  exacting." 

"  What  do  you  miss  in  him?" 

"  I  don't  miss  anything :  he  is  all  too  much  there. 
I  was  downright  sassy  to  him  this  afternoon :  he  drives 
you  to  it,  looking  at  you  so." 

"  Looking  at  you  —  how  ?  he  does  n't  look  at  me," 
said  Caroline  innocently  and  rather  alarmed,  Engra- 
cia  being,  like  her  father,  strong  in  her  likes  and  dis- 
likes which  she  took  little  pains  to  hide. 

"  Never  mind  him ;  he 's  the  future  —  let  him  wait. 
I  want  to  know  all  about  ourselves — if  you  are  not 
too  tired?" 

"I  am  never  tired  when  there  is  any  talking  to 
be  done."  Caroline  did  not  go  on  at  once  after  this 
glance  at  her  familiar  weakness  —  sign  in  itself  that 
she  found  her  story  difficult,  even  to  tell  Engracia, 
that  born  listener  which  Providence  sometimes  grants 
a  talkative  woman  in  the  bosom  of  her  family.  En- 
gracia sat  forward  in  her  low  chair  and  clasped  her 
elbows  to  keep  her  hands  still  (they  had  tricks  that 
bothered  her  when  she  did  not  watch  them). 

"Well,  dear;  it  was  ten  or  twelve  years  ago  — 
when  we  had  come  to  the  question  of  schools,  and 
we  could  n't  make  up  our  minds  to  be  humble  about 
our  children.  Suddenly,  your  father  learned  what  he 

160 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

might  be  making  somewhere  else.  An  offer  came  to 
him  from  one  of  his  best  old  friends,  a  great  engineer 

—  Allerton  Voorhees.  He  is  dead  now ;  and  he  never 
quite  forgave,  I  think,  the  slight  to  his  offer  that  he 
had  waited  so  long  to  make.  It  was  to  go  out  to  South 
Africa  for  a  famous  London  company  with  invest- 
ments all  over  the  world.  It  meant  a  great  professional 
future,  to  be  the  right  hand  of  such  a  man.   With  his 
backing  it  would  have  made  our  fortune.  The  golden 
chance  that  comes  once  and  once  only  —  and  I  'm 
afraid  that  I  was  the  stumbling-block. 

"  I  understood  all  the  arguments :  those  were  his 
best  years  —  what  he  failed  to  do  then  for  his  chil- 
dren could  never  be  made  up ;  and  though  money 
does  not  mean  reputation  to  an  engineer  with  other 
engineers,  it  does  with  outsiders.  Pride  came  into  it : 
he  knew  this  work  here  would  never  show  results  in 
his  lifetime  to  justify  all  his  prophecies.  Gold  is  there 

—  any  one  can  see  that  kind  of  success.  But  my  rea- 
sons were  feelings  —  vague  dread,  and  that  inertia 
which  grows  upon  women  in  a  life  like  this.  I  think 
it 's  good  for  us,  you  know,  but  it  makes  us  hate 
changes.  And  how  I  loved  it  here !  Can  any  one 
imagine  why !  I  grew  to  love  the  very  smell  of  the 
summer  dust  —  the  silence  of  our  heats  ;  the  rooms 
we  made  ourselves  and  filled  with  our  own  dreams. 
Papa  loved  it  too,  but  he  turned  it  all  down.  He  sent 
in  his  resignation  with  regrets,  almost  with  apolo- 
gies. He  had  worked  so  hard  for  Mr.  Rivington's 
confidence  in  what  he  wanted  to  do  here  —  then  to 
back  out  himself  on  a  question  of  salary ! 

161 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Mr.  Rivington  met  him  in  his  own  handsome 
fashion.  'The  Board  can't  raise  you,'  he  wrote,  *  but 
I  can.  Let  me  know  the  least  you  can  afford  to  stay 
for.  I  am  not,  of  course,  the  Rand  ! '  — 

"  Well,  I  may  say  the  flesh  dropped  off  me  while 
this  thing  was  in  the  air.  It  meant  to  leave  Tom,  his 
first  years  away  from  home ;  or  if  I  stayed  with  you 
children,  the  separations  again !  There  had  been  so 
many  —  only  this  one  home  !  Two  months  by  letter 
and  back,  and  if  anything  should  happen  to  papa  — 
he  was  never  well  —  those  turns  that  we  did  not  un- 
derstand. ...  I  begged  him  to  be  modest.  I  wanted 
his  figures  to  be  met.  The  one  thing  I  believe  he 
wanted  most  he  never  spoke  of :  that  association 
with  a  big  work-brother,  a  man  of  his  own  cast  of 
mind,  his  leader  and  his  friend.  He  cared  greatly  for 
Mr.  Rivington,  but  not  as  one  'artificer'  cares  for 
another  —  the  man  who  understands." 

"  Blessed  mother,  you  need  not  apologize  to  us  for 
sticking  to  the  home." 

"  I  'm  apologizing  to  him.  It  is  one  of  those  uncon- 
querable regrets.  .  .  .  Well,  he  was  moderate  —  for 
my  sake ;  he  was  almost  humble.  He  asked  about 
half  his  earning  capacity,  according  to  that  offer,  and 
Mr.  Rivington  met  him  out  of  his  own  pocket.  He 
was  practically  the  company,  but  he  would  n't  force 
the  small  stockholders  into  risks  outside  of  strict 
business  —  I  don't  know  how  to  put  these  things. 
Then,  Uncle  Benjamin  began  to  think  about  those 
school-bills  too  —  he  has  always  been  like  an  own 
father  to  me.  For  my  part,  it  would  have  hurt  less 

162 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  take  that  family  money  for  you  children,  to  make 
you  a  credit  to  the  family,  than  Mr.  Rivington's  pri- 
vate check  —  but  that  would  have  been  help.  Papa 
wanted  what  he  was  worth,  in  the  open  market.  I 
must  n't  forget  —  Cousin  Tom  offered,  too,  most  hand- 
somely, but  that  was  different  again :  there  were 
personal  reasons  —  no  need  to  explain.  It  simply 
could  n't  be,  in  that  case.  It  was  the  one  sore  subject 
between  us  —  no,  no !  not  Cousin  Tom !  we  were 
perfectly  agreed  there  —  Mr.  Rivington's  subsidy,  I 
mean.  Papa  would  not  see  it  that  way  —  it  was  part 
of  his  rightful  salary,  he  felt.  He  would  n't  even  call 
it  a  loan.  And  if  it  were  a  loan,  he  said,  '  my  life  and 
time  are  security :  I  sacrifice  a  good  deal  more  than 
Rivington  to  the  future  of  this  work.'  Still,  we  never 
liked  to  talk  of  it,  though  I  know  it  has  puzzled  some 
very  good  friends  of  ours  how  we  have  got  on.  And 
now  it 's  Tom's  life  and  work  we  are  living  on,  and 
no  pride  or  delicacy,  or  anything  must  stand  between 
us  and  niggardly  economy." 

Engracia  rose  and  walked  about  the  room  seeking 
things  to  do  with  her  hands. 

This  aspect  of  the  family  circumstances  had  never 
been  presented  to  her  young  mind  before,  though 
the  necessity  of  doing  so  had  been  discussed  often 
by  her  parents. 

"  If  I  can't  take  care  of  one  wife  and  one  daugh- 
ter, what  in  heaven's  name  am  I  good  for  !  We  don't 
want  her  off  somewhere  earning  her  living  —  we 
want  her  here  with  us."  Scarth,  of  course,  did  not 
share  the  modern  theory  that  an  incomeless  wife  and 

163 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

daughter  are  "  parasites."  So,  now,  it  was  a  ques- 
tion for  Engracia  to  solve  for  herself. 

"I  must  do  something,  mamma.  I  wonder  what  I 
am  good  for." 

"  An  old  lady's  companion,"  her  mother  answered 
promptly.  "Will  you  be  mine? — You  can  have  a 
position  with  me,  right  here  on  the  spot,  without  a 
single  reference." 

"  You  can't  afford  me,  dear.  I  should  expect  more 
than  my  board  and  clothes." 

"  Not  while  you  are  in  training.  Think  how  I 
shall  exercise  you  in  all  the  necessary  virtues !  I  '11 
promise  to  be  as  trying  as  I  can." 

"  I  believe  I  could  be  such  a  thing  as  a  '  social 
secretary,'  if  I  were  not  too  social.  Is  my  handwriting 
stylish  enough?" 

"  Your  writing  may  be,  but  you  are  not.  Smart- 
ness may  have  its  uses,  you  see." 

"  I  shall  look  for  a  lady,  you  understand  —  a  real 
lady." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  look  for  her  in  San  Francisco ! 
—  don't  interrupt  —  on  Cousin  Anna's  account.  She 
would  have  you  on  her  mind  continually.  You  are 
not  serious,  dear  ?  " 

"  Serious  enough  to  wonder  what  the  poor  things 
are  paid." 

"  Rather  more  than  a  governess  and  not  near  as 
much  as  a  cook,"  the  mother  jeered,  knowing  noth- 
ing about  it,  naturally. 

"  I  don't  class  myself  with  chefs  in  any  depart- 
ment, but  I  may  surprise  you  yet.  It  seems  to  be  one 

164 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

of  those  things  you  can  leave  largely  to  Providence 
—  the  hope  of  the  incompetent ! " 

"  Your  friends  will  be  your  hope.  We  have  no  one 
here  but  the  Ludwells.  I  should  so  hate  to  ask  them 
for  references  —  it  would  call  down  checks  upon 
our  heads  from  Cousin  Tom  —  I  can't  take  help  from 
him,  because  —  papa  —  " 

"  Of  course  not.  He  's  our  kindest  kin,  but  not  our 
kind.  —  Nobody  is  criticizing ;  I  don't  believe  papa 
did  —  not  much." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WITHIN  a  few  days  Engracia  took  the  first  steps 
toward  carrying  out  her  plans,  her  mother  consenting 
despondently.  Tom  was  not  advised  of  the  matter ; 
time  enough  to  deal  with  him  when  there  should  be 
something  definite  to  talk  of.  The  women  clung  to 
these  last  precious  hours  together.  They  were  rather 
more  irritable  with  each  other,  and  passionately  re- 
pentant, feeling  how  time  flew  by.  Engracia  no  longer 
practiced  —  she  could  not  concentrate  upon  anything. 
She  played  over  the  old  things  her  mother  loved, 
which  brought  soft  tears  along  with  piercing  memo- 
ries. What  are  homes,  after  all,  but  "  deserted  nurs- 
eries," or  they  break  up  before  summer  is  done  and 
cast  their  fledglings  out  helpless  on  the  winds  of 
fate. 

And  since  the  world  is  largely  made  up  of  misun- 
derstandings, Cornish  meanwhile  was  thinking  that 
never  had  he  seen  a  young  woman  who  spent  her 
time  more  profitlessly  than  this  daughter  of  unsuccess, 
who  in  a  home  like  that  might,  at  least,  have  learned 
to  put  her  hand  to  something  practical.  He  was 
deeply  concerned  about  her  future,  as  he  had  no  right 
to  be.  He  had  understood  that  several  winters  in 
New  York  (an  exaggeration)  had  been  given  to  the 
study  of  music  —  yet  she  never  touched  the  piano  in 
his  hearing.  She  did  not  confide  to  him  her  custom 

1 66 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

of  making  the  family  beds,  including  his  own :  Moon 
could  have  shaken  down  a  bed  for  a  horse  —  further 
his  skill  in  that  line  did  not  go.  She  followed  him 
about  on  his  sweeping  rounds,  dusting  after  him  with 
a  woman's  touch.  There  were  fresh  flowers  all  over 
the  house  cut  with  strict  justice  to  the  garden;  — no 
man  knows  what  a  chore  this  is  in  hot  weather ;  but 
Cornish  never  saw  her  at  the  graceful  task.  He  con- 
cluded, in  short,  that  here  was  another  fatal  instance 
of  the  American  father  who  thinks  his  own  life  and 
little  means  will  never  give  out,  and  if  they  should 
it  is  the  good  God  and  not  the  Evil  One  who  takes 
the  hindmost. 

Meanwhile,  they  jested  and  argued  superficially ; 
if  they  explored  deeper,  it  was  with  a  significant  cau- 
tion in  testing  each  other's  fundamental  faiths  and 
ideals  of  living.  Books  they  generally  agreed  about,  or 
they  subtly  pretended  to  disagree.  Caroline  thought 
very  little  about  them  except  to  notice  a  certain  in- 
consistency between  Engracia's  occasional  bursts  of 
destructive  criticism  of  their  guest  and  her  long  con- 
versations alone  with  him  on  the  steps,  now  the  cooler 
nights  drove  mothers  indoors. 

"  Did  Mr.  Cornish  know,  do  you  suppose,  about 
father's  arrangement  with  Mr.  Rivington?"  Engracia 
asked  once,  after  another  plunge  into  that  past  which 
ceaselessly  haunted  Caroline. 

"  Of  course  his  secretary  knew." 

"  About  those  private  checks?" 

"They  were  personal,  not  ' private'  —  there  was 
no  secrecy  about  it  in  Mr.  Rivington's  office." 

167 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Had  he  anything  to  do  with  it  when  they 
stopped?" 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean— -  who  stopped  it?  did  G.  C.?" 

"  Death  stopped  it,"  said  Caroline  quietly.  "  Tom, 
of  course,  wrote  what  was  necessary  from  us,  to  make 
it  easy.  He  wrote  to  Mr.  Cornish  —  to  spare  him 
writing." 

"  He  seems  to  have  been  firmly  mixed  in  with  all 
our  most  private  hurts.  Shall  we  ever  see  his  report 
on  us,  do  you  suppose?" 

"  Hardly,  but  it  won't  be  difficult  to  know  what  it 
is.  We  shall  know  —  when  it  is  time  to  move  out." 

On  three  successive  market-days  an  old  Italian 
rancher  named  Morandi,  with  his  little  grandson  to 
interpret  for  him,  stopped  to  see  Mr.  Scarth  on  their 
way  down  the  valley.  They  caught  him  at  last  one 
lunch-time  and  Tom  went  out  to  speak  to  them,  the 
family  at  table  inside  listening,  much  amused. 

A  child's  high  treble  sing-songed  in  English  of  the 
district-school,  "  He  wants  to  know  kin  he  have  them 
bricks  what 's  layin'  out  where  the  house  was  burnt, 
down  our  way  quite  a  piece?" 

"As  far  as  I  know,  he  can,"  Tom's  voice  replied. 

This  was  conveyed  by  little  Morandi  to  his  grand- 
sire  in  their  own  tongue.  "  He  wants  to  know,  kin 
we  take  'em  to-day  when  we're  goin'  down  along?" 

The  answer  again  seemed  satisfactory.  Thanks 
followed  in  an  old  man's  husky  tones.  Heavy  feet 
went  trampling  down  the  gravel  followed  by  stump- 

168 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ing  of  small  new  boots.  A  rush  was  made  to  collar 
Bran  who  resented  these  familiarities  and  had  charged 
forth  swearing.  Cornish  remained  outside,  discussing 
bricks  with  Tom. 

"  How  much  a  thousand  are  bricks,  counting  freight 
and  hauling?" 

Bricks,  it  seemed,  were  unreasonably  high  consider- 
ing they  are  made  down  the  valley  at  Folsom  — 
machinations  of  the  "  S.  P." 

"  Think  you  could  n't  have  made  use  of  those  bricks 
—  in  your  hop-ovens,  for  instance  ?" 

"They  are  not  good  bricks,"  said  Tom — "been 
too  long  out  on  the  ground." 

"They  wouldn't  have  been  worth  stacking  under 
cover,  you  think  ?  Labor  is  worth  more  than  bricks  ?  " 

"  They  were  n't  our  bricks."  (Here  the  women 
chuckled  shamelessly.)  "  They  belonged  to  the  squat- 
ter who  built  the  house,  long  before  our  time ;  he  went 
off  and  did  n't  take  his  chimney." 

"If  Tom  had  held  onto  those  bricks!"  Engracia 
whispered  fiercely. 

"Strictly  speaking,  they  were  not  his  to  give 
away." 

"  They  were  his  still  less  to  keep,  like  a  dog  in  the 
manger." 

"  Oh,  well ;  he  did  n't  know  they  were  n't  ours." 

"Was  the  old  policy  as  small  as  that?" 

"  Any  policy  that  saves  the  company's  money  is 
not  small :  your  father  looked  after  the  little  things." 

"  Did  he  waste  the  good-will  of  our  poor  neigh- 
bors and  set  them  against  us  for  utter  meanness? — 

169 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

speaking  as  selfishly  as  you  like,  I  should  think  that 
would  hardly  pay!" 

"Why  so  excited,  child?  It  was  a  very  small  tale 
of  bricks." 

"  It  is  n't  the  bricks,  good  Heavens !  It 's  what  it 
must  make  of  a  man's  mind  to  be  thinking  of  every 
brick." 

1 '  It 's  his  own  mind,  dear,  and  his  own  business.  It 
is  what  makes  men  rich." 

"  You  did  n't  say  that  of  Mr.  Rivington." 

"I  said  he  left  this  part  to — the  man  he  finally 
trusted  with  all  he  had." 

Outside,  the  men's  voices  were  heard  chatting 
pleasantly :  "  What  do  the  Italians  do  with  damaged 
bricks?"  Cornish  inquired. 

"Build  bake-ovens  for  their  wives; — good  cooks 
they  are,  too.  We  must  go  down  to  Morandi's  some 
night  and  get  his  women  to  give  us  a  raviola  supper. 
If  we  let  them  have  a  day's  notice  they  '11  lay  them- 
selves out." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CORNISH  overstayed  the  dry  season  and  no  one 
wished  him  gone.  He  was  there  through  the  first 
September  rain,  and  sat  by  the  first  autumn  fire  and 
thought  it  the  sweetest  evening  of  many  years, 
though  nothing  marked  it  but  a  silence  of  sober  folk 
who  listened  to  the  steady  downpour  outside,  know- 
ing what  it  meant  "  for  the  country." 

In  the  night  he  heard  the  clear-up  wind  tumbling 
through  the  chambers  of  the  oak,  clashing  its  million 
little  hard-finished  leaves  against  the  groaning  house- 
roof.  Half  waking  he  wished  for  another  blanket  and 
instantly  fell  asleep  again  drugged  by  the  change  of 
air.  Next  morning  it  was  as  if  one  whole  layer  of  at- 
mosphere had  been  removed ;  he  saw  the  great  val- 
ley unveiled  at  last  —  "  our  alleged  Buttes  and  our 
conjectural  Coast  Range  "  were  no  longer  a  fable  for 
strangers. 

Engracia  was  in  the  pantry,  after  breakfast,  put- 
ting up  lunch  for  two.  There  were  fine  points  about 
a  riding-lunch  by  no  means  to  be  entrusted  to  Moon. 
His  part  was  slicing  ham  and  passing  it  in  on  a 
kitchen  plate  through  the  serving-window.  Cornish 
and  Engracia  were  expected  to  eat  this  lunch  some- 
where on  the  way  to  Dixie  Canon  —  neither  having 
had  the  least  hand  in  the  arrangement.  Engracia  was 
protesting  her  own  innocence  to  Cornish,  who  had 

171 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

wandered  in  for  a  drink  of  water  fresh  from  the  filter. 
He  loomed  large  in  these  domestic  precincts  and  his 
spurs  seemed  inappropriate. 

"  Tom  is  the  quick-decision  board  of  this  family," 
she  explained  elaborately.  "  As  soon  as  he  found  you 
were  not  going  to  be  ready  on  the  moment,  he  went 
off  alone  in  the  buggy  and  left  word  for  me  to  be 
your  guide.  He  has  a  weird  faith  in  my  knowing 
these  roads  —  I  don't  think  I  do,  but  if  you  are  will- 
ing to  trust  me,  I  '11  try  to  get  you  there." 

"  I  should  think  we  might  risk  it  with  all  that  ham 
along  —  ham  and  chicken  too  !  —  such  good  eats  1 " 
He  stood  over  her  and  watched  like  a  small  boy 
while  she  matched  her  slices  and  trimmed  her  crusts. 

"  It  would  n't  be  proper,  I  suppose,  to  leave  them 
on?" 

"We  leave  ours  on,  but  I  had  the  fear  of  New 
York  before  me." 

"  And  New  York  grudging  every  crust  you  have 
thrown  away ! " 

"I  '11  put  them  all  up  in  paper,  specially  for  you." 

"  Thanks.  —  What  an  extraordinary  nice  place  a 
pantry  is,"  he  murmured  wistfully.  "  I  could  n't  be 
allowed  to  stay,  I  suppose?  You  may  be  wasting 
something  else  if  nobody 's  here  to  watch  you. 
There  's  a  slice  of  breast  and  two  chicken-wings  you 
have  n't  put  in." 

"  Poor  mamma's  lunch  !  The  wing  is  her  choice 
part." 

"  I  retreat  in  confusion.  Now  you  might  be  gener- 
ous, I  think,  to  the  fallen  1 " 

172 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Could  I  trust  you  to  fill  a  thermos-bottle  without 
breaking  it?  —  the  coffee  is  there  at  your  elbow, 
boiling  hot." 

"In  my  experience  of  thermos-bottles,  nothing 
comes  out  of  them  either  as  hot  or  as  cold  as  we  're 
led  to  expect,"  said  Cornish,  arguing  from  limited 
experience. 

"  —  And  they  are  the  dickens  to  clean." 

"Why  do  we  take  the  blamed  thing?" 

"  What  will  New  York  drink?" 

"  Is  there  no  water  on  the  road  ?" 

"  Perfect  water,  anywhere." 

"Good  Heavens;  then  why  a  thermos-bottle?  — 
how  this  world  fairly  reeks  with  misunderstandings! 
—  Now,  what  are  you  privately  so  amused  about  ? 
Can't  you  pass  it  on? — passing  things  on  is  the 
very  spirit  of  a  pantry." 

She  passed  on  the  smile  without  any  tag  to  ex- 
plain it  —  thinking :  "  New  York  is  a  different  being 
this  morning  ;  is  it  the  air  or  what  ?"  But  the  wind 
went  out  of  his  sails,  and  he  backed  out  of  the  pan- 
try rather  foolishly  as  her  mother  entered,  preoccu- 
pied —  showed  tactless  surprise  at  seeing  them  both 
there  and  asked  Engracia  if  she  had  remembered  the 
paper  napkins. 

An  hour  later  they  were  following  the  trail  along 
a  land-drop  some  hundreds  of  feet  sheer  down  to  a 
gulch,  bone-dry  save  where  a  few  lost-looking  man- 
zanita  sprouts  seemed  as  if  stuck  by  hand  in  the 
drifted  sand.  This  was  the  lower  part  of  the  wash- 
ings, but  as  they  rode  on,  stones  in  wild  heaps  and 

173 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

tumbled  boulders  took  its  place  —  work  of  hydraulic 
mining  before  the  anti-debris  law.  Tops  of  dead  pines 
leaned  on  a  level  with  their  eyes,  others  clung  half- 
uprooted  to  the  disemboweled  hill.  The  sluiced-out 
gulch,  a  hundred  feet  across  to  its  opposite  wall,  lay 
quiet  as  death.  The  rain  had  done  nothing  here 
beyond  filling  a  few  pot-holes  so  far  below  they  could 
hardly  see  them  shine.  But  up  the  face  of  the  cliff- 
side,  thirty  summers  had  done  their  work.  A  tide  of 
young  green  life  rushed  upwards,  catching  hold, 
climbing  on :  hardly  a  raw  spot  of  earth  remained. 
Ceanothus,  bear-weed,  juniper,  every  species  of 
thorn  and  native  briar,  running-oak  and  squaw' s- 
mat  and  bracken  turning  gold,  with  what  color- 
patches  of  wild  flowers  in  spring  fancy  could  supply. 
They  sat  their  horses  in  silence,  looking  down. 

"  Have  you  ever  read  —  but,  of  course,  you  have 
n't,"  Engracia  paused  :  —  "  it's  not  a  man's  book." 

"  Even  so  I  might  have  read  it,"  Cornish  smiled. 
"I'm  afraid  I 'm  only  half  a  man  in  some  of  my 
reading." 

"  The  hundredth  man,"  Engracia  corrected  po- 
litely. "  Well ;  does  this  place  remind  you  of  any- 
thing you  have  read  —  any  description  ?" 

"  Now  you  speak  of  it  —  the  first  chapter  in  'Arne' : 
*  How  the  cliff  was  clad.'  " 

"Isn't  it  odd,  we  both  should  see  it!  But  it's 
the  same  idea  —  the  old  scars  that  heal  in  spite  of 
themselves?" 

"And  the  other  old  scars,"  he  added,  "that  are 
never  going  to  heal,  but  they  take  their  load  of  sand 

174 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

and  even  grow  things  on  it.  ...  You  were  pretty 
young  for  allegory,  weren't  you,  when  you  read 
'Arne'?" 

"  I  did  n't  read  'Arne'  till  quite  lately.  '  The  Happy 
Boy'  and  'Synove,'  mamma  gave  us  first.  Do  you 
know,  "  she  questioned,  pursuing  her  own  thoughts, 
"if  those  books  were  ever  the  'best-seller'  kind?" 

"  Hardly,  I  think,  the  kind  a  bookseller  pokes  at 
you." 

"  So  I  supposed. "  They  rode  on  at  an  easy  pace, 
the  trail  descending.  "  You  see,  it  was  Mr.  Riving- 
ton  we  owe  Bjornson  to  —  and  he  sent  us  a  perfect 
wonder  of  a  '  Folk  and  Fairy  Tales '  —  Scandinavian ! 
I  've  never  seen  it  in  any  other  house.  It  was  the  loss 
of  our  youth  1  We  lent  it  to  one  of  those  borrowers 
who  don't  take  books  seriously  as  they  would  the  loan 
of  a  Butterick  pattern.  .  .  .  Now,  how  could  he  have 
spent  time  to  pick  out  such  books  for  us  ?  We  had 
other  books  at  Christmas,  but  none  like  his :  they 
were  a  special  brand  of  choice  —  ours,  and  mamma's, 
too.  We  read  hers  as  fast  as  we  grew  up  to  them. 
It  was  the  best  part  of  our  education  —  of  mine  !  " 
Cornish  listened  with  persuasive  interest.  "  I  remem- 
ber, when  we  talked  to  him  about  them  —  after  they 
were  a  part  of  us,  you  know  —  he  seemed  a  little 
vague ;  he  was  pleased,  but  he  did  n't  quite  under- 
stand. He  would,  you  know,  if  he  had  read  them." 

"  Is  an  elderly  gentleman  expected  to  educate  him- 
self along  with  the  little  girls  he  gives  books  to?" 

Engracia  laughed.  "  I  did  n't  see  it  that  way  ex- 
actly, but  perhaps  that  is  the  way.  Anyhow,  I  do  wish 

175 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

we  knew  —  who  it  was  dealt  with  us  so  large-minded 
like,  had  such  faith  in  a  family  of  readers  they  had 
never  seen  and  such  great  ideas  about  reading  gen- 
erally. We  did  n't  bother  our  ungrateful  heads  about 
it  then,  but  I've  wondered  since  —  it's  an  immense 
debt  to  somebody." 

"Why  not  him?" 

"  Of  course  him  —  but  some  one  else,  too ;  —  but  I 
don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  know." 

"Such  keen  young  detectives  must  have  come 
pretty  close  to  the  heart  of  the  mystery.  You  had  your 
theories,  no  doubt?" 

"  /  had  a  theory.  It  was  rather  presumptuous  to 
drag  in  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Rivington,  but  —  you've 
seen  her,  of  course?  —  she  is  young,  and  she  looks  at 
you  —  " 

Cornish  looked  at  her,  in  sharp  surprise.  "  Where 
did  you  ever  see  her  ?  " 

"  Only  her  picture.  It  stood  on  his  table  always 
when  he  was  with  us.  It  was  one  of  my  chores  to  dust 
his  august  room "  —  Engracia  paused  to  laugh,  pa- 
renthesizing—  "I  shall  get  into  difficulties  if  I  go 
on.  But  you  need  n't  think  I  spend  my  life  browsing 
on  guest-room  tables !  I  did  hang  over  that  picture 
sometimes,  when  I  should  have  been  doing  my  work ; 
and  I  dreamed  that  she  was  our  beautiful  gift-fairy 
who  thought  of  us  every  Christmas  and  knew  exactly 
what  we  loved.  Somehow  the  books  were  like  her ; 
and  when  I  wrote  my  proper  thanks  to  him,  it  was 
always  her  face,  in  the  picture,  I  saw." 

Cornish  was  silent ;  his  smile  of  ironic  amusement 
176 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

wiped  out  that  dream  at  once  and  forever.  "They 
were  uncommonly  good  letters  for  a  little  girl  to  write, 
whoever  may  have  inspired  them,"  he  answered 
guardedly. 

"  Where  did  you  ever  see  my  letters?"  Engracia 
stared.  Riding  at  her  side — middle-aged,  as  she 
called  him,  passing  grim  —  a  beard,  close-trimmed 
but  yet  a  beard,  covering  his  stiff  half-smile  —  how 
could  he  have  had  anything  to  do  with  this  cherished 
romance  of  her  childhood ! 

"  Must  the  gift-fairies  always  be  young  and  beauti- 
ful ?  They  were  n't  in  my  time.  They  were  rather 
nasty  customers  with  tempers  you  had  to  get  on 
the  right  side  of  or  they  played  you  tricks.  —  Came 
when  they  were  n't  asked  and  gave  you  what  you 
did  n't  want :  —  Prince  Giglio,  you  know,  and  his  gift 
of  '  a  little  misfortune.'  " 

She  scrutinized  him  and  he  winced ;  he  was  visibly 
embarrassed  and  talking  at  random  to  hide  it.  "  Mr. 
Cornish,"  she  cried,  almost  woundedly  —  "  It  was  n't 
—  it  could  n't  have  been  you  1" 

No  more  was  said  ;  no  more  needed  to  be  said.  She 
saw  what  she  had  done.  He  made  an  effort  to  smile 
naturally  —  it  was  a  failure.  She  knew  that  he  had 
witnessed  and  fully  comprehended  her  flat  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Well,  let  me  thank  you  now,  for  all  the  years  when 
we  thanked  everybody  else.  It  was  a  debt,  and  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  interest,  is  n't  there,  added  to  the  prin- 
cipal?" 

"You  must  n't  forget  —  Mr.  Rivington  always 
177 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

divided  his  thanks.  That  is  how  I  came  to  read  your 
letters." 

"  Then  you  have  read  my  letters  ?  " 

"Some  of  them  —  they  were  among  his  papers, 
from  the  time  you  were  twelve  to — I  believe  I 
could  tell  your  age  precisely,  but  I  was  n't  expecting 
to  find  you  really  grown  up.  And  at  first  it  was  a 
disappointment.  I  used  to  think  little  girls  ought 
never  to  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing.  Afterwards  I  for- 
gave you  —  you  did  it  so  well."  He  gave  a  sudden 
strong  sigh.  They  jogged  along  peacefully  as  if  noth- 
ing were  going  to  happen.  "  It  came  to  be  one  of 
the  nicest  things  at  Christmas,"  he  continued,  "  pick- 
ing out  those  books  for  a  little  girl  on  the  Marysville 
road,  who  read  so  straight  to  the  mark.  You  were 
my  little  '  traveler  in  the  realms  of  gold.'  " 

She  questioned  him  with  a  look :  "  Yes ;  I  wrote 
those  words  intrusively,  on  the  fly-leaf  of  your  '  Iphi- 
genia.'  Do  you  remember?" 

"  Do  I  remember  —  my  first  Greek  tragedy ! "  Her 
eyes  softened  almost  with  tears.  "  What  an  amazing, 
willful  goose  I  was  —  running  all  around  Robin 
Hood's  barn  to  find  some  one  who  was  there  all 
the  time.  The  writing  was  so  nice  and  strange  —  I 
thought  it  must  be  hers :  I  knew  it  was  n't  his." 

"  What  does  it  matter?  He  got  your  letters  and  he 
cared  for  them.  Now,  if  you  still  want  to  thank  me 
for  nothing  —  let  me  keep  them,  will  you?  I  want 
them." 

"  Mr.  Cornish !  what  perfect  nonsense !  Nobody  ever 
kept  my  letters  except  my  mother." 

178 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Somebody  wants  to  keep  them  now.  May  I  tell 
you  why  ?  I  want  every  part  of  you  —  past  and  future 

—  all  to  myself.  My  —  dear,  my  little  girl !  Can't  it  be 
so?" 

She  was  shocked  as  well  as  startled  :  he  had  grown 
completely  pale  and  he  struggled  for  breath  to  go  on. 
Must  she  give  him  this  needless  pain,  just  as  she  was 
beginning  to  learn  what  it  would  mean  to  have  had 
him  for  a  friend  ? 

"Those  letters  —  make  them  the  letters  my — wife 

—  wrote  when  she  was  a  child  —  before  we  dreamed 
of  this.  Don't  think  I  was  educating  you  to  be  my 
wife.  Heaven  forbid !  This  is  as  great  a  shock  to  me 
as  it  is  to  you,  my  dear  child.  Come,"  he  ended,  see- 
ing her  blank  dismay,  realizing  that  he  must  give 
her  time — "let  me  always  buy  your  books.  Come 
to  me  and  read  mine  1  This  is  no  fatherly  business 

—  I'm  in  love  with  you  —  helplessly,  ridiculously. 
What  do  you  suppose  has  kept  me  out  here  so  long  ? 
I  could  n't  get  up  courage  to  speak  and  I  could  n't 
go  away  without  speaking." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  I  could  be  that  little  girl 
again.  I  might  have  loved  you,  I  think,  if  I  had  only 
known  who  you  were.  I  can't  believe  the  things  I 
have  thought  and  said  about  you,  even  since  you 
came ! " 

"  I  can,"  said  Cornish,  who  had  heard  some  of  them. 
"  But  no  matter :  begin  back  with  me  now  and  grow 
up  to  the  idea.  I  can't  tell  you  how  patient  I  shall  be. 
I  am  used  to  waiting." 

She  recalled  that  statement  afterwards,  when  it 

179 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

seemed  to  have  gained  another  significance  ;  but  now 
she  answered,  "  It  would  be  the  meanest  selfishness 
in  me  to  let  you  wait  —  no ;  truly,  I  don't  want  to  feel 
that  way  at  all." 

"  Less  toward  me  than  others  you  could  think  of?" 

"  There  are  no  others." 

"  Then  I  must  wait."  She  looked  at  him  in  despair. 
But  he  could  not  save  her  now,  all  that  his  silence  had 
held  back.  "  I  thought  my  first  question  would  have 
been,  'Am  I  too  old?'  — and  we  haven't  even  got  to 
that,  it  seems." 

"  You  are  too  old — too  everything — for  an  ignorant 
girl  like  me.  That  would  not  discourage  me,  though. 
Oh  1  the  trouble  is,  you  offer  me  something  I  dare 
not  take,  and  we  both  lose  what  we  had  before  and 
did  n't  even  know  that  we  had  it  —  if  you  can  un- 
derstand me." 

"  Of  course,  I  understand.  I  can't  let  you  refuse  to 
go  on  with  this.  You  must  give  me  leave  to  write 
to  you.  Remember,  I  did  n't  know  that  you  were 
here — you,  as  you  are.  And  I  did  n't  understand  you 
at  first.  I  was  gone,  just  the  same — from  the  very  first 
night  —  " 

"  Excuse  me ! " —  Engracia  looked  about  her.  "  This 
must  be  Blue  Tent  we  are  coming  to.  We  've  noth- 
ing to  do  with  Blue  Tent !  Our  road  turns  off  three 
miles  back.  I  've  made  you  lose  it." 

"  I  have  made  you  lose  it." 

"  That 's  no  way  for  me  to  get  out  of  it.  Six  miles 
—  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half  out  of  our  way.  Please 
forgive  me  1 " 

180 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  What  is  an  hour  to  me  —  when  I  have  waited  for 
you  all  my  life  —  and  you  give  me  nothing  that  I 
ask  for?" 

"  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat,  if  you  '11  let 
me." 

"Are  we  to  picnic  in  Blue  Tent?  That  will  be 
cheerful  1 " 

"  We  can  fill  our  canteens  there." 

They  rode  on  in  silence  and  came  into  the  one 
street  of  Blue  Tent  which  has  five  saloons  open  and 
one  schoolhouse  shut.  It  has  a  pump  also  in  front  of 
its  main  hotel.  A  gaunt,  cold-looking  woman  dressed 
in  calico,  her  bare  arms  rolled  in  her  kitchen  apron, 
watched  them  from  the  stoop  while  the  horses  drank 
and  Cornish  filled  the  canvas-covered  canteens. 

"  Ask  her,"  Engracia  leaned  from  her  saddle  to  say, 
"  if  we  may  use  their  telephone.  I  must  send  word 
to  mamma  we  shall  be  late.  We  can  call  up  the  saw- 
mill, too,  and  they  will  tell  Tom  we  are  coming.  He  's 
so  unconcerned  about  disappointments,  he  may  not 
wait  after  what  he  would  call  a  suitable  time." 

A  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  person  of  one  old 
man,  who  left  his  woodpile  and  came  and  sat  on  the 
steps  to  observe  them  more  at  leisure.  He  chewed 
and  spat  and  studied  Cornish  in  particular  —  his 
horse,  his  riding-clothes,  his  speech  as  he  and  the  girl 
consulted  in  low  voices.  He  had  recognized  Engracia, 
by  her  pony,  as  one  of  the  Scarths  from  Torresville 
way. 

"  They  ain't  got  no  telephone  in  there,"  he  vol- 
unteered ;  the  woman  assented  with  a  nod.  "  Where 

181 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

you  want  to  connect? "  She  turned  an  unfriendly  eye 
upon  Cornish. 

"  Could  you  tell  me  where  there  is  a  public  tele- 
phone?" he  retorted  in  kind. 

She  glanced  at  the  old  man : —  "Ther'  ain't  no  tele- 
phone in  Blue  Tent,"  he  answered.  "  Ef  you  want  to 
talk  to  somebody,  you  '11  have  to  go  on  to  Grizzly  " 
(Grizzly  Flat). 

"  But  we  can't,  this  afternoon,"  Engracia  struck  in, 
smiling.  She  had  heard  the  stories  about  these  placer- 
towns,  their  well-founded  suspicions  of  strangers,  and 
thought  it  time  to  be  more  diplomatic.  "  We  are  go- 
ing to  meet  my  brother,  Mr.  Scarth,  and  we  're  off 
our  road.  We  want  to  send  him  word  that  we  shall 
be  late  —  " 

"Whereabouts  you  aimin'  to  meet  him?"  the  an- 
cient inquired. 

"  Dixie  Canon  —  where  the  flume  crosses  from  this 
side." 

"  Sho,  you  don't  have  to  go  back  them  three  mile! 
I  kin  put  ye  onto  a  trail  —  take  ye  there  in  no  time. 
The  ditch-trail:  Jim  Perrin  uses  it  steady  goin'  to 
town." 

Engracia  mentioned,  aside,  that  Perrin  was  the 
company's  ditch-tender,  and  no  doubt  the  trail  would 
be  all  right.  But  she  knew  enough  to  ask,  "  Is  there 
a  bridge?  how  do  we  cross  the  creek?" 

"  Ford  it,  far  as  I  know.  'T  ain't  much  of  a  crick. 
Jim  will  give  you  your  bearin's  —  you  're  right  there, 
might  say,  soon  as  you  strike  his  cabin." 

They  took  the  trail,  Cornish  indifferent,  Engracia 

182 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

eager  to  repair  her  previous  carelessness.  The  way 
was  beautiful  but  steep.  The  voice  of  the  north  wind 
rose  out  of  the  gulch,  making  music  in  the  tops  of 
the  tall,  thin  young  pines  into  whose  gray  perspec- 
tive of  trunks  they  rapidly  descended.  Half  a  mile 
brought  them  to  their  first  landmark,  the  ditch,  and 
all  seemed  well.  They  stopped  in  a  little  glade  clothed 
with  sunny  deer-grass  to  dispose  of  a  five-minute 
lunch.  Engracia  admired  her  companion's  gallantly 
forced  appetite  to  match  her  own  frank  cravings,  but 
he  made  no  pretense  to  conversation.  They  rode  on 
along  the  trodden  ditch-bank,  and  very  soon  talking 
would  have  meant  shouting  —  against  a  sudden  out- 
cry of  waters  that  burst  upon  them  as  if  a  flood  barred 
the  way. 

The  ditch  ended  suddenly  at  the  head  of  the  flume 
where  it  strides  out  on  its  forty-foot  trestle.  There 
was  no  bridge  and  no  ford  a  sane  rider  would  attempt. 
The  creek  boiled  along  swollen  by  heavy  rains  in 
the  mountains.  They  might  have  heard  the  tumult 
sooner  but  for  that  glorious  north  wind  rioting  in  the 
gulch. 

"  He  said  it  was  n't  *  much  of  a  crick,'  " —  Cornish 
shouted :  "  I  think  Jockey  of  Norfolk  is  bought  and 
sold !"  —  She  could  hear  only  "sold." 

"  Who  did  you  buy  that  horse  from  —  hire,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Ryder,  his  name  was." 

"  Of  course  we  're  sold !  He  's  the  sheriff —  of  Plu- 
mas  County,  where  they  are  watching  these  men." 

"So  that's  why  there  was  no  telephone  in  Blue 
Tent?" 

183 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

She  pointed  ahead :  "  You  see  how  Jim  crosses  " 
—  a  man's  footprints  in  mud  were  plain  on  the  eight- 
inch  board  laid  along  the  cleats  of  the  flume.  "  Now, 
if  you  could  make  him  hear  us !  " 

Cornish  amazed  her  with  a  remarkable  screech 
through  his  thumbs  resurrected  from  a  boyhood  not 
misspent.  She  complimented  him  on  it,  but  it  failed 
to  produce  Jim.  "  I  know  he  has  a  telephone,"  she 
urged.  He  remained  calm.  She  waited  a  decent  in- 
terval —  nothing  whatever  occurred. 

Her  face  flushed  crimson :  she  slipped  out  of  her 
saddle  to  the  ground  and  began  taking  off  her  spurs. 
In  an  instant  he  was  beside  her.  "  What  are  you  go- 
ing to  do  ?  "  He  picked  up  one  of  the  spurs  and  held 
it  toward  her,  pointing  up  the  trail.  Nicety  of  speech 
was  denied  them  in  that  uproar.  It  added  to  their 
mutual  irritation,  being  obliged  to  explain  differences 
on  a  forced  key. 

"  We  shall  be  hours  late.  Tom  won't  wait  unless 
he  knows  we  are  coming.  If  he  gets  home  without 
us,  mamma  will  be  sick  ! " 

"We  can  go  straight  back,  then,  and  get  home  first." 

"And  not  meet  Tom? —  Give  up  the  whole  day! 
/  lost  the  road  —  please  let  me  fix  it." 

"  Anything  you  say,  short  of  walking  that  flume." 

"I  don't  ask  you  —  " 

"  And  I  don't  offer." 

"  I  saw  that !  If  you  like  to  be  beaten,  I  don't.  I 
should  feel  very  silly  —  " 

"  But  this  is  more  than  silly  —  to  walk  that  flume 
to  tell  your  brother — " 

184 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  I  have  n't  asked  you  to  walk  it.  Why  will  you 
make  me  insult  you  !  "  His  color  rose  —  "  You  see 
Jim's  tracks  —  walking  flumes  is  no  more  than  cross- 
ing Broadway  —  " 

"  —  If  you  are  used  to  it."  He  had  unsnapped 
his  spurs  and  kicked  them  off ;  backing  Nipper  out 
of  his  own  way  and  square  in  hers,  he  was  off  upon 
the  errand  required  of  him.  He  had  attacked  it  in 
hot  blood  and  the  high  cup  of  his  wrath  upheld  him 
for  the  first  half  of  the  way.  He  reached  the  highest 
spot  and  she  watched  him  frozen.  A  full  head  of 
water  shot  beneath  his  feet ;  the  creek  tore  and  tum- 
bled far  below  —  very  far,  it  seemed  to  him.  Sun 
flashing  on  both  currents  confused  his  sight,  and  he 
had  not  a  head  for  high  places.  She  guessed  that 
now,  and  could  have  pounded  her  own  head  upon  the 
rocks  in  shame  for  what  she  had  forced  upon  him, 
in  a  cheap  demand  for  "gallantry,"  about  as  civi- 
lized as  the  laughter  of  squaws.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
he  stayed  on  that  high  spot  forever,  hesitating  — 
then  he  recovered  and  almost  strode  into  the  bosom 
of  the  opposite  shore.  He  did  not  once  turn  to  look 
at  her,  but  climbed  the  bank  and  vanished  in  the  wil- 
lows around  Jim's  cabin.  Again  it  seemed  hours 
that  she  waited  for  another  sign. 

He  had  known  that  he  was  right  before,  and  now 
he  had  proof  of  it.  In  regard  to  Tom,  there  was  no  re- 
sponse from  the  sawmill,  though  he  tried  obstinately 
over  and  over.  The  little  girl  who  had  "  dared  "  him 
to  this  job  might  wait  now !  As  to  her  mother  —  it 
took  time  for  Central  to  "get"  Mrs.  Scarth  on  the 

185 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

local  line ;  it  took  more  time  for  his  answers  to  sat- 
isfy the  questions  he  had  aroused.  She  knew  more 
about  this  region  than  her  daughter  allowed  for. 

"  But  where  are  you  talking  from  ?  " 

"Jim  Perrin's  cabin,  I  believe." 

"How  did  you  get  across  ?  —  you  did  n't  try  to 
ford ! " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Cornish  easily ;  —  "  just  walked  the 
flume." 

"  That  flume !  —  not  Engracia  ?  " 

"  She 's  on  the  other  side  with  the  horses  —  " 

"And  you  crossed  to  speak  to  me!  I  hope  my 
foolish  girl  did  not  send  you  !  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  lied  Cornish.  "  I  crossed  to  send  a  mes- 
sage to  your  son.  We  '11  all  be  back  about  nine  or 
half  past." 

"  Well ! "  said  Mrs.  Scarth's  voice  expressively ; 
"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  !  I  wish  I  knew  you  were 
safe  back  across  that  flume." 

Cornish  wished  so,  too. 

He  was  on  the  bank  —  his  second  ordeal  before 
him.  Doing  a  thing  once  does  not  necessarily  make 
it  easier  to  do  it  again.  Cold  sweat  broke  out  upon 
him ;  the  foundations  of  his  being  literally  revolted 
in  face  of  the  attempt.  Engracia  knew  his  peril  al- 
most better  than  he,  as  he  took  his  first  steps  along 
the  plank  in  no  such  form  as  he  had  exhibited  before 
— it  was  cold  blood  now.  He  walked  with  fatal  rigid- 
ity and  he  was  looking  down.  She  saw  him  falter  mis- 
erably, creep  on  a  few  steps,  then  slowly  lower  himself 
and  cling  on  all  fours  to  the  plank.  Her  soul  was 

1 86 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

sick  for  the  humiliation,  and  the  shock  of  the  danger 
before  her  eyes  drove  her  out  upon  the  flume  to  meet 
him. 

How  she  got  there  she  did  not  know,  but  they 
were  together  and  he  rose,  deathly  white,  with  the 
help  of  her  hands,  and  so  they  stood  confronted. 

"  Hold  on  to  me  while  I  turn/'  she  said,  trembling. 
It  was  an  inspiration.  He  forgot  himself,  he  sup- 
ported her.  She  changed  feet  on  the  narrow  board 
and  faced  the  other  way.  "  Now,  put  your  hands  on 
my  shoulders  and  don't  look  down  f"  „ 

"  Break  step  ? "  he  asked  faintishly,  thinking  of 
wire  bridges  in  the  air. 

"  Keep  step,  and  don't  look  down  ! " 

The  tranquil  shore  came  nearer  above  her  little 
head,  and  when  they  stood  on  the  good  ground  once 
more,  she  sank  a  dead  weight  suddenly  on  his  breast. 
How  long  he  held  her  or  how  she  came  to  be  seated 
on  the  ground  with  him  beside  her,  he  did  not  know. 

"  Please  go  away,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  cry." 

"Then  cry  here."  He  wanted  to  cry,  too,  if  truth 
were  known.  Decidedly  he  wanted  to  do  other  things 
equally  preposterous,  if  not  equally  unmanly. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  XX 

CORNISH  left  them  in  three  days  and  no  more  was 
heard  from  him  officially,  but  letters  to  Engracia 
began  to  come,  which  necessitated  explanations  to 
one's  mother.  Caroline  was  astounded  at  the  size, 
vulgarly  speaking,  of  her  little  daughter's  first  "bag." 
It  silenced  one  side  —  the  cheaper  —  of  the  old  con- 
tention, and  it  disposed  of  that  other  fear  lest  her  odd 
child,  sweet  as  she  seemed  in  a  mother's  eyes,  might 
miss  that  human  form  of  appreciation  prized  by  the 
human  mother  as  being  "  respectit  like  the  lave." 

Cousin  Anna  came  up  just  then  on  a  short  visit, 
thinking  how  sad  it  would  be  at  Roadside,  and 
showing  that  she  expected  it  to  be  sad.  It  was  merely 
common  consideration,  in  the  long  talks  between  the 
friends,  to  speak  of  something  besides  dolor — and  the 
episode  of  one's  daughter's  perfectly  up-to-date  con- 
quest slipped  from  Caroline's  keeping  (perhaps  she 
did  n't  try  very  hard  to  keep  it)  —  strictly  in  confi- 
dence, of  course.  Her  punishment  held  off  for  a 
while.  Meantime  it  was  novel  and  pleasant  to  taste 
that  triumph  over  again  in  her  friend's  astonishment 
and  frank  regrets. 

"  I  hope  she  has  n't  put  an  end  to  it  finally :  no 
girl,  at  her  age,  can  possibly  know  what  she  wants  in 
a  husband." 

"  She  expects  to  be  convinced,  however.  He  seems 
191 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  have  failed  to  convince  her  that  he  is  what  she 
wants." 

"  For  the  present :  he  won't  give  it  up,  of  course. 
But  she  must  n't  keep  him  waiting  too  long.  I  am 
sure  there  's  many  a  charming  woman  in  New  York 
would  take  him  quick  enough  ;  and  he  has  no  time 
to  throw  away." 

The  steady  rains  came  on.  The  oak  kept  his  leaves 
and  darkened  the  downstairs  rooms  as  of  old  when 
it  was  the  children  who  were  missed  as  the  autumn 
days  grew  shorter.  The  women  sat  by  the  fire  up- 
stairs and  said,  in  their  patchwork  language  of 
quotes,  "  *  Now  for  retrospection  and  the  fall  sew- 
ing.' "  Caroline  had  dug  this  up  out  of  a  past  when 
women  did  have  "fall  sewing"  and  spent  happy 
hours  over  it  with  long  talks,  or  reading  aloud  there- 
with :  reading  aloud  being  the  best  part  of  educa- 
tion in  those  days,  and  a  better  guide  to  thought,  in 
most  cases,  than  club  meetings,  for  you  don't  usually 
meet  and  talk  intimately  with  the  greatest  minds 
and  souls  of  the  ages  at  modern  club  gatherings. 
And,  of  course,  whole  afternoons  given  to  bridge 
or  tea-dances,  to  women  of  Caroline's  bringing-up, 
would  have  appeared  "an  occupation  for  bedlam." 

They  did  not  pride  themselves  upon  their  resources, 
nor  even  upon  the  singular  blessedness  of  being  forced 
to  discover  and  depend  on  them.  Caroline  said  hon- 
estly, "  It  is  very  dangerous  to  be  so  happy  when  we 
are  all  by  ourselves.  You  must  n't  give  way  to  it  if  I 
do ;  you  ought  to  need  people  and  you  ought  to  get 
used  to  more  people." 

192 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Don't  bother  me.  I  'm  going  away  to  get  used 
to  people ;  I  shall  need  one  person  and  she  won't  be 
there. — And  oh,  mamsy,  I'm  such  a  baby  about  it 
all  —  this  place  and  all  of  it!" 

"  But  there  is  nothing  special  about  this  place.  We 
have  our  sunsets ;  —  there  are  better  ones  down  at 
the  Bay." 

"  And  houses  in  front  of  them !  —  hideous  houses ! " 

"  Yes ;  it 's  very  bad  to  stick  to  one  place  or  one  set 
of  associations  too  long.  It  makes  one  narrow  and 
sensitive  and  afraid  —  and  even  suspicious  that  there 
must  be  something  wrong  about  every  other  place. 
You  can  see  it  in  me ! " 

"  If  you  were  like  your  own  theories,  mamma,  — 
the  ones  you  try  to  work  off  on  your  children,  —  no- 
body could  live  with  you.  Thank  Heaven,  you're 
not ;  and  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do." 

There  had  been  a  letter  from  Cousin  Anna  —  apro- 
pos of  changes  —  asking  Engracia  to  "  come  down  " 
and  taste  their  life  and  society  in  town  for  a  while. 
Unquestionably  the  thing  to  do ;  but  Engracia,  in 
proof  of  her  mother's  words,  arose  with  groans  and 
looked  over  her  clothes  with  reference  to  worldly  eyes 
upon  her.  However,  a  mother  can  sometimes  be 
lenient.  "  Cousin  Anna  will  see  to  you  perhaps,  when 
you  get  down  there ;  and  you  won't  be  going  out." 

Engracia  had  been  at  the  Ludwells'  some  days. 
Dressed  as  usual  rather  early  one  evening,  she  stopped 
in  Clare's  room  for  a  few  last  fastenings.  Clare  fixed 
a  lively  eye  upon  her. 

193 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

" Guess  who  's  coming  to  dinner  to-night?" 

"  Dalby  Morton  generally  is  coming  to  dinner :  is 
to-night  an  exception  ?  "  Engracia  countered,  suspect- 
ing a  trap  of  some  kind. 

"Dalby  won't  be  in  the  picture  with  this  man. 
He  's  an  authority  of  some  kind  upon  something — 
I  don't  know  what !  But  you  know  him :  you  had 
him  up  there  weeks  examining  you.  Now,  can't  you 
guess?" 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  seeing  that  Engracia 
guessed.  Seldom  had  she  risen  to  a  clumsy  cast  like 
this.  A  slow,  stubborn  blush  took  command  of  her 
countenance,  refuting  any  possible  pretense  of  in- 
difference. The  subject  dropped  like  something  hot 
between  them,  —  Clare  as  much  amazed  as  Engracia 
was  furious. 

Clare,  be  it  said,  did  not  sleep  that  night  till  she  had 
wormed  out  of  her  mother  the  secret  confided  by  her 
friend  with  such  artless  satisfaction.  It  was  out  of 
Mrs.  LudwelPs  power  to  lie  directly,  which  her  daugh- 
ter knew,  and  framed  her  questions  accordingly.  And 
what  she  had  won  by  her  own  ingenuity,  Clare  made 
use  of  as  she  pleased:  — and  what  harm  in  letting  it 
be  known  that  one's  little  country  cousin  was  not 
quite  so  negligible  socially  as  she  might  appear.  Men, 
Clare  considered,  were  fair  game,  especially  men  on 
the  confines  of  forty;  if  they  have  not  learned  by 
that  time  to  take  care  of  their  tender  feelings,  who 
do  they  expect  will  save  them? 

At  dinner  neither  candles  nor  flowers  obstructed 
Engracia' s  view  of  the  evening's  guest  at  his  hostess's 

194 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

right,  nor  the  occasional  disconcerting  glances  she 
could  not  avoid  from  his  direction.  Disconcerting, 
because  Clare  was  merrily  on  the  watch ;  and  he  had 
shaved  his  Edward  the  Seventh  beard,  which  took 
at  least  ten  years  from  his  age  and  restored  to  the 
uses  of  expression  a  mouth  and  chin  not  ill  adapted 
for  the  purpose.  She  saw  him  for  the  first  time  in  soci- 
ety, guarded  and  ready  as  a  diplomat,  clever  in  his 
talk,  but  not  artificial.  It  was  also  their  own  first 
formal  meeting  under  other  than  family  eyes ;  it  held 
the  consciousness  of  justifiable  secrecy  shared  with 
dignity  on  both  sides,  but  as  Engracia  was  unused  to 
such  implications  it  disturbed  her  poise. 

Other  guests  enlarged  the  party  after  dinner.  Quite 
in  the  end  of  the  evening,  he  came  deliberately  to 
speak  to  her  where  she  had  settled  herself  with  a  book 
in  an  excellent  window-seat.  He  wheeled  his  chair  so 
that  seated  he  could  screen  her  from  the  room.  It  was 
half  a  minute  before  he  broke  a  silence  interesting 
but  anxious  for  both. 

"  Reading  in  company?  Were  n't  little  girls  spoken 
to  for  that?  —  little  boys  were,  in  my  time." 

Engracia  put  down  her  book,  smiling.  "  I  stop  with 
pleasure." 

He  glanced  at  the  title  and  disposed  of  it  with  a 
shrug :  "  Unwholesome,  decadent." 

"Ah,' but  a  poet!" 

"  We  don't  need  them — that  school.  They  are  sick 
or  insane ;  their  work  will  not  last." 

"  I  should  think  this  might  last  —  as  long  as  it  was 
meant  to.  It  doesn't  believe  that  anything  lasts." 

195 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

She  passed  him  the  book  open  —  He  read,  with  an 
unsympathetic  eye :  — 

"They  are  not  long,  the  weeping  and  the  laughter, 

Love  and  desire  and  hate : 
I  think  they  have  no  portion  in  us  after 
We  pass  the  gate." 

"Not  for  me  !  I  'm  too  near  the  'gate.'  Only  chil- 
dren like  you  can  abide  that  stuff.  But  I  came  to  talk 
business,  not  poetry." 
?    "  Business  ?  —  with  me ! " 

"  Your  business,  mistaken  child,"  he  looked  at  her 
gloomily.  —  "  Earning  your  living." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"  Your  mother  was  kind  enough  to  tell  me." 
("  Mamma  must  be  losing  her  mind,"  thought  En- 
gracia.  "  She  certainly  is  a  little  warped  this  summer 
of  our  woes.")  "  I  hope  she  did  n't  see  how  it  dis- 
tressed me,"  Cornish  added  :  "  I  fancied  she  was  not 
any  too  happy  in  it  herself." 

"  Mamma  is  away  behind  the  times  in  some  things ; 
and  she  can't  believe  I  am  grown  up.  She  thinks 
bears  will  eat  me." 

«."  They  will  —  but,  of  course,  you  won't  listen  to 
me ;  though  I  was  a  brother  once  and  might  speak 
for  brothers  a  little."  He  paused,  but  she  remained 
silent.  "  I  seem  to  have  lost  ground  in  *  the  treach- 
erous air  of  absence'  ? " 

"No,  indeed,  only  —  to  be  frank  —  and  personal 
—  I  scarcely  know  you.  You  are  changed.  I  should 
n't  say  it  was  *  absence'  alone  —  " 

He  touched  his  shaven  cheek  and  looked  at  her 

196 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

unsmiling".  "  Would  you  prefer,  on  the  whole,  to  see 
less  of  me?  We  try  these  experiments  on  our  wretched 
countenances  as  you  do  your  hair  suddenly  in  some 
new  way.  Be  thankful  it  does  n't  grow  on  your  faces." 

There  was  no  occasion  for  immoderate  laughter  at 
this  speech,  nor  even  at  his  quaint  depression  as  he 
watched  her.  She  was  liable  to  such  nervous  mani- 
festations under  his  hypnotic  gaze.  "  Oh,  come,"  he 
said  with  a  sudden  deep  inspiration,  "  you  strike  me 
as  a  child  sporting  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice ;  I  am 
afraid  to  speak  for  fear  I  shall  make  you  fall.  And  I 
am  commissioned  to  offer  you  precisely  what  I  most 
dread  you  should  have." 

"  Something  to  do  ?  —  a  position  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Rivington  wants  you  for  her  secretary." 

Engracia  gasped. 

"  Was  it  your  —  most  kind  —  " 

"  It  was  n't,  rest  assured.  Why  should  I  be  kind  ? 
But  I  am  much  more  than  kind,  remember.  —  You 
and  your  character  and  your  qualifications  were  in 
my  hands :  I  might  have  shut  you  off  with  a  word  ! 
.  .  .  She  knows  who  you  are  and  all  that,  but  —  let 
me  say  in  parenthesis  — don't  be  too  sure  she  under- 
stands. She  is  preoccupied." 

"I  should  say  so  !  I  'm  the  one  to  understand  — 
I  hope  you  accepted  at  once  —  if  you  think,  that  is, 
that  I'll  do?" 

"  I  wish  —  once  more  —  you  would  accept — some- 
thing so  much  simpler,  more  natural,  safer  —  " 

"  Not  safer !  Please,  let  us  spare  ourselves  :  it  is 
useless." 

197 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

She  saw  him  breathe  deep :  she  had  put  a  period 
to  that  side  of  their  discourse,  but  she  half  wished 
she  could  have  added,  "  useless  —  now." 

"You  will  want  to  write  to  your  mother  first?  " 

"  I  can  take  her  consent  for  granted.  She  has  had 
the  direst  doubts,  but  this  will  lift  a  load  off  her  poor 
mind.  Will  it  be  in  the  East?" 

"  No ;  Mrs.  Rivington  is  coming  to  Southern  Califor- 
nia, to  be  near  a  school  where  she  has  placed  her 
sons."  Cornish  paused  and  smiled  to  himself.  "  Her 
doctors  have  ordered  complete  rest  for  her  nerves  ; 
they  always  believe  there  is  such  a  thing ! " 

"As  nerves?" 

"  Rest !  So,  she  has  set  up  a  Ouija-board,  and  now 
she  wants  a  companion." 

"  What  is  that  other  thing  ?  — '  Wee '  ?  " 

"Merely  a  device  for  wasting  time  —  and  better 
than  solitaire,  for  it  wastes  time  for  two.  You  will  sit 
for  hours  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  demon  and 
listen  to  banal  questions  about  things  that  you've  no 
business  to  know,  and  to  driveling  answers  from  a 
wooden  peg  which  points  to  the  letters  of  the  alpha- 
bet, on  some  dark  principle  that  we  are  not  expected 
to  fathom." 

"  How  you  must  have  suffered  from  it  —  the  little 
demon ! " 

"  I  have :  but  let  that  pass.  You  will  be  paid  for 
your  time.  Could  you  exist,  independent  of  brothers 
you  despise,  on  a  thousand  a  year  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Cornish  !  Does  she  want  to  buy  me  ?  " 

"  What  a  pathetic  child  you  are,"  he  laughed  un- 
198 


THE  ^VALLEY  ROAD 

mirthfully.  "I  shall  not  mortify  you  by  a  rough 
guess  at  what  Mrs.  Rivington  pays  her  cook !  " 

"  A  fig  for  your  cooks !  I  shall  live  with  the  lady 
of  my  dreams  and  prize  every  hour  in  her  company 
—  and  to  be  paid,  beside  1 " 

"  I  am  to  accept  for  you,  then,  without  any  condi- 
tions?" 

"  If  you  think  she  won't  be  disappointed.  Did  you 
tell  her  I  have  had  no  training  to  amount  to  any- 
thing?" 

"  I  should  not  tell  her  that  because  you  have  —  she 
did  not  ask  me,  however." 

"  I  wish  I  might  know  what  she  did  ask  you  ?  " 

"She  asked,  first,  if  you  were  good-looking  —  or 
perhaps  she  said  pretty ;  and  if  you  had  a  pleasant 
voice,  and  if  you  dressed  '  like  a  lady.' ' 

"  I  wonder  what  you  said  to  that ! " 

"  I  think  I  said  that  I  no  longer  professed  to  know 
how  a  lady  should  dress." 

"  She  must  have  thought  you  were  mocking  her 
or  me,  or  the  whole  arrangement." 

"  I  mock  myself  of  my  wasted  magnanimity.  You 
don't  give  me  the  least  credit  for  it ;  she  naturally 
knows  nothing  about  it,  and  if  it  should  turn  out 
badly,  the  dregs  will  be  mine  to  swallow  —  knowing 
I  might  have  kept  the  cup  from  you  with  a  word. " 

"  But  what  '  cup '  ?  What  is  in  it,  do  you  imagine?" 

"  Heaven  knows  !  Ask  Ouija." 

"What  is  l  Wee'  —how  do  you  spell  it?" 

"  Mrs.  Rivington  will  write  you  all  these  important 
particulars.  One  thing  I  must  warn  you :  your  lady 

199 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

is  not  athletic ;  she  never  walks :  she  steps  —  in  the 
highest  heels  —  from  her  rugs  to  her  limousine.  She 
will  ignore  your  active  habits." 

"  You  know  you  thought  me  the  laziest  girl  in  the 
world ! " 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  Well,  I  found  out  about 
you.  Mrs.  Rivington  will  not  find  out  unless  you  tell 
her.  Promise  me  you  won't  forget  your  walks?" 

"  I  shall  leave  my  walks  to  her.  Why  do  you  try 
to  warn  me  against  my  lady  before  I  have  even  seen 
her!  I  like  high-heeled  ladies  in  limousines." 

"  I  am  trying  to  prepare  you  for  reality  where  you 
are  looking  for  a  dream.  Limousines  have  their 
price,  like  other  things.  It  is  not  necessary  to  say 
Mrs.  Rivington  is  a  brilliant,  fascinating  woman : 
that  you  will  find  out  for  yourself.  —  But  it  won't 
help  you  to  walk." 

"  I  will  remember  orders ;  but  you  know  I  have  no 
nerves." 

"You  will  develop  some  when  you  become  a  com- 
panion, especially  if  you  don't  walk.  Now,  I  must  say 
good-night  to  your  very  charming  cousins."  Yet  he 
seemed  unable  to  take  leave.  "  By  the  way,  do  you 
read  Wordsworth's  ' Sonnets'?" 

Engracia  smiled :  "  Not  much." 

"  Read  them  more.  And  when  you  come  to  a  line 
in  one  of  them,  beginning  *  Dear  Child,  dear  Girl,'  — 
I  wish  you'd  think  of  another  old  fellow  you  don't 
care  for  much  who  is  thinking  of  you :  — '  God  being 
with  you  when  we  know  it  not.'  —  I  hope  so!" 

"  Are  you  quoting  or  talking?" 
200 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Both.  You  know,  I  had  got  over  that  habit  of 
quoting,  but  staying  in  your  delightful  family  brought 
it  on  again. "  They  smiled  at  each  other  apprecia- 
tively :  —  "  Farewell,"  he  said. 

"  But  why  not  good-bye  ?  Shall  I  —  don't  you  — 
ever  come  to  see  Mrs.  Rivington?" 

"  If  I  came  to  '  see '  any  one  at  Mrs.  Rivington's, 
who  would  it  be?" 

Engracia  gave  him  her  hand  in  silence.  He  looked 
deeply,  warningly  she  thought,  into  her  eyes.  "  Not 
Mrs.  Rivington's  secretary,"  she  said. 

"  The  world  being  with  us,  perhaps  not.  But  Mrs. 
Rivington's  secretary  will  hear  from  me  as  often  as 
she  is  good  enough  to  allow.  Farewell,  Engracia,  — 
mi  alma"  he  added  gently. 

She  sat  by  herself  awhile,  puzzled,  excited,  half  afraid 
but  eager  for  this  "  cup  "  which  he  offered  her  with 
such  dark  previsionings.  Was  his  fear  for  the  lady,  or 
for  herself,  or  himself,  as  he  pretended  ?  Certainly  he 
had  seemed  very  tender  of  her  in  his  pensive  raillery. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

DALBY  MORTON,  it  has  been  hinted,  was  a  frequent 
if  not  a  constant  guest  at  the  Ludwell  house.  We 
cannot  better  explain  why  so  frequent  than  by  quot- 
ing a  dialogue  between  him  and  his  father,  meeting 
one  afternoon  at  one  of  their  mutual  clubs. 

"Ha!  How  do!  —  Long  time  since  I  saw  you, 
somehow,"  said  the  latter.  "  Where  do  you  keep  your- 
self nowadays?" 

"The  usual  places,"  said  Dalby,  waiting  for  his 
father  to  be  seated  at  the  table  from  which  he  had 
risen. 

"  Sit  down,  son.  Want  to  talk  to  you  for  a  change. 
What  have  you  been  doing  lately  ?  Dancing  attend- 
ance on  some  girl?" 

"The  usual  girl." 

"Which  one  is  it  now?" 

Dalby  laughed  softly.  "You  seem  pretty  happy," 
his  father  observed.  "  Anything  special  to  make  you 
so?  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  settle  on  one,  some 
day?" 

"One  —  ?" 

"  One  girl.  I  don't  expect  you  to  pick  out  a  wife  to 
please  me,  but  when  you  do  make  up  your  mind,  see 
here :  I  want  you  to  do  this  much  as  I  say  !  —  Call  it 
a  promise,  if  you  like." 

"Well,  sir?" 

202 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  me  your  word  never  to 
propose  to  one  of  them  after  dark  —  in  evening  dress. 
If  you  wake  up  in  the  morning  wanting  her,  that 's 
another  story ;  but  not  the  gas-light  nonsense.  Un- 
derstand?" 

"Well,  hardly!"  said  Dalby,  frowning. 

"  I  guess  you  do,"  said  his  father.  "  After  dinner  is 
part  of  it.   You   drink   too  much;  —  don't  say  you 
don't,  for  I  know  you  do." 
.    " Have  you  ever  seen  me  when  I  showed  it?" 

"  Do  I  show  it?  I  drink  too  much  all  the  time,  but 
I  did  n't  at  your  age.  .  .  .  That 's  how  the  girls  make 
fools  of  you,  when  they  look  good  enough  to  eat." 

"  We  were  n't  discussing  the  girls,"  Dalby  inti- 
mated, turning  his  eyes  away. 

"  I  am,"  said  his  father.  "I  've  been  waiting  to  say 
something  about  a  matter — seem  to  hear  things  now 
and  then ;  may  be  something  in  it.  No  use  speaking 
when  it 's  too  late.  How  about  that  Ludwell  girl  — 
Tom  Ludwell's  daughter?" 

"  It  is  too  late  to  speak  of  her  to  me  in  that  way, 
father :  Clare  and  I  are  engaged." 

Mr.  Morton  received  the  news  with  a  few  words 
of  such  energy  that  his  son  leaned  across  the  table 
and  said  very  low,  with  his  eyes  on  the  wrathful 
visage  opposite,  "  Would  you  like  me  to  leave  you, 
father?  If  my  happiness  affects  you  in  this  way,  I  'd 
better  be  off  out  of  your  sight,  hadn't  I?" 

"  Sit  still !  What  do  the  Ludwells  say  about  it  ? 
Are  they  happy?" 

"  Mr.  Ludwell  does  n't  call  it  an  engagement,  yet : 
203 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

that  was  one  reason  why  I  have  n't  spoken  to  you. 
In  fact  —  he  expects  us  to  wait  a  year  or  so,  under 
his  own  conditions  —  " 

"Sensible  old  boy,  Tom.  Sound  as  a  dollar!  And 
what  does  —  how  do  the  women  take  it  ?  How  do 
they  like  the  idea  of  waiting  ?  " 

"  Clare  has  her  mother  with  her :  they  are  rather 
more  on  my  side." 

"  Always  are,  the  mothers  !  Can't  rest  till  they  see 
their  girls  as  miserable  as  they  say  they  are  them- 
selves." 

"  Clare  and  I  are  not  miserable." 

"  Marry  her  and  see !  I  side  with  Ludwell,  tinder- 
stand." 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me,  father  ?  I  am 
positively  the  happiest  man  in  the  city,  —  and  she  is 
the  finest  girl,  in  any  cityl" 

"Too  fine,  too  fine.  Girls  like  that  always  think 
they  must  have  the  earth.  Don't  I  know  Tom  Lud- 
well's  pride !  She  '11  make  you  trouble,  son.  A  year 
from  now  —  you  '11  know." 

The  dinners  and  dances  went  on  without  pause 
while  Engracia's  visit  lasted  :  she  had  her  long  beauti- 
ful hours  in  the  library  and  evenings  often  alone.  But 
on  a  certain  grand  opera  night,  Cousin  Anna  would 
not  permit  her  to  miss  the  music.  There  was  supper 
after  the  opera,  which  was  long,  and  the  hall-clock 
struck  two  as  the  party  returned.  The  girls  could  not 
compose  their  minds  for  bed  at  once;  Mrs.  Ludwell 
left  them  talking  by  the  drawing-room  fire  and  joined 

204 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

her  husband  in  his  study.  They  were  soon  in  the 
midst  of  a  family  argument  most  unexpectedly  to 
both.  If  Ludwell  had  had  the  faintest  suspicion  how 
his  wife  would  take  it  he  would  not  have  sprung  the 
matter  on  her  just  at  bedtime,  in  that  casual  fashion. 
He  had  merely  wished  her  to  know  that  Cornish,  one 
of  the  strongest  of  the  younger  men  in  Eastern  finance, 
had  asked  her  husband's  opinion  before  trusting  his 
own  as  to  the  future  of  the  Torres  Tract  developed 
on  Scarth's  plans. 

"  As  a  friend  of  both  sides,  I  found  it  a  rather  deli- 
cate question." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  his  wife  in  a  tone  that 
might  have  warned  him. 

"  There  was  no  getting  around  it ;  and  in  fact  why 
should  I  hesitate  ?  Hal  Scarth  never  asked  odds  of 
any  one's  opinion  —  he  wanted  the  scheme  judged 
on  its  merits." 

"  And  he  is  dead  !  —  You  told  him  you  did  n't  be- 
lieve in  it?" 

"I  was  obliged  to  tell  him  what  I  think  —  " 

"One  can  do  that,  of  course,  without  being  en- 
tirely fair.  Can  two  men,  so  different,  judge  each 
other's  work?" 

"  Cornish  came  to  me  for  that  very  reason ;  he 
wanted  a  different  angle  of  vision.  He  knows  Scarth's 
side  —  has  watched  it  for  years  ;  and,  I  may  add,  he 
trusted  my  fairness." 

"  I  trust  your  intention  to  be  fair,  Tom ;  only  it 
seems  to  me  unfortunate  that  you  said  anything  at 
all." 

205 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Why?" 

"  For  family  reasons." 

"  There  was  no  business  or  family  confidence  be- 
trayed :  why  did  Cornish  come  to  me  ?  He  does  n't 
do  awkward  things  in  private,  any  more  than  I  do." 

"  He  came  to  you  to  give  the  poor  things  a  last 
chance  :  if  you,  a  relative  and  an  old  friend,  had  not 
a  word  to  say  for  them  —  of  course  that  ends  it." 

"Them  1  we  are  talking  of  the  property  —  " 

"You  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Hanged  if  I  do !  —  you  look  at  the  personal 
side." 

"  I  should  think  there  might  have  been  a  personal 
side  for  you  —  enough,  at  least,  to  keep  you  silent." 

"  I  was  passive.  He  put  it  to  me  as  an  old  Cali- 
fornian,  acquainted  with  the  interlocking  interests  a 
scheme  like  this  would  have  to  fight  —  " 

"  Including  some  of  your  own  ?  " 

"Well,  Anna,  if  you  take  that  tone  we  simply  can't 
talk  of  it  —  accusation  is  n't  argument.  At  least,  let 
me  assure  you,  Cornish  had  about  reached  his  own 
decision  on  the  evidence  he  has  gathered  for  him- 
self, right  on  the  spot  before  his  eyes." 

"Tom,  did  he  say  so?" 

"Naturally  not.  He  says  nothing,  outside  of  his 
report :  he  won't  report  to  me.  But  you  can  read  a 
man's  mind  —  he  would  have  liked  to  have  his  judg- 
ment shaken,  I  grant  you  that  —  for  the  same  rea- 
son it  went  hard  with  me  to  confirm  it." 

"  So  you  did !  —  You  will  have  helped  to  turn 
them  out  of  their  home  ?  " 

206 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  There  you  are  again — a  woman's  justice  1  Would 
you  want  a  home  founded  on  dead  capital  of  investors 
waiting  for  their  money  ?  I  should  call  it  a  sad  kind 
of  a  home." 

"And  now,  what  will  happen?"  Anna  persisted, 
mollified  without  being  quite  ready  to  own  it,  and 
glad,  as  a  wife,  to  hear  her  husband's  defense. 

"  Nothing  very  soon.  If  Cornish  reports  unfavor- 
ably, the  stock  will  be  gotten  rid  of  —  probably  in 
one  lump.  The  other  stockholders  will  hardly  hold 
on  after  that.  The  Tract  will  be  on  the  market  — 
cheap  —  for  a  song." 

"  It  is  very  painful,  and  I  wish  you  had  kept  out 
of  it." 

"  No  one  but  you,  my  dear,  will  ever  know  it  was 
put  up  to  me.  And  I  am  willing  to  give  my  opinion 
because  capital  has  been  exploited  out  here  enough : 
it  hurts  us  with  Eastern  investors.  Hal  Scarth,  if  he 
could  have  heard  every  word  I  said,  would  have 
called  it  — " 

"Who  is  that?"  cried  Mrs.  Ludwell,  stepping  to 
the  door.  "  Is  n't  that  Dalby  Morton's  voice?  " 

A  cab  had  driven  up  and  left  a  late  caller,  who  was 
being  shown  into  the  drawing-room  after  what  seemed 
some  inexplicable  delay  and  with  considerable  talk- 
ing in  one  voice,  a  man's. 

Mr.  Ludwell  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  Dalby  is  at  a 
stag-dinner ;  they  would  n't  break  up  at  this  hour." 

"  He  's  broken  up  ;  and  he  ought  n't  to  come  here 
—  listen  ! "  Dalby's  voice,  in  a  high  wavering  fal- 
setto, went  on  and  on ;  the  girls  were  silent.  Husband 

207 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

and  wife  exchanged  glances.  "  Tom,  you  'd  better  go 
out  there." 

"  You  go  and  send  the  girls  to  bed ;  I  '11  take  care 
of  Dalby." 

Engracia  came  out  into  the  hall  and  saw  Cousin 
Anna  in  the  study  door,  her  evening  wrap  falling 
from  her  shoulders.  The  girl  looked  rather  confused 
and  smiled  oddly. 

"  I  'm  going  to  bed  after  all,  cousin ;  —  it  was  a 
beautiful  time.  Thank  you  so  much." 

Hardly  had  she  reached  the  stair-head  when  Clare 
flew  out,  wildly  explicit  in  her  anger.  —  "  Papa,  I  wish 
you  would  tell  Dalby  Morton  to  go  home  and  make 
him  understand,  if  you  can,  that  I  don't  want  to  see 
him  here  again  —  ever  !  " 

Mrs.  Ludwell,  who  knew  exactly  what  had  hap- 
pened, asked  mechanically,  "  What  is  the  matter  with 
Dalby?" 

"  Go  and  look  at  him,"  said  Clare.  "  Engracia 
went  to  bed  to  spare  me  ;  —  do  you  think  I  can  stand 
that  1 " 

"You  go  to  bed  yourself;  the  world  has  n't  come 
to  an  end,"  said  her  father. 

"  Dalby  Morton  has  come  to  an  end,  for  me,"  said 
the  furious  girl.  "  I  sat  there  and  listened  to  his  maud- 
lin speeches  before  Engracia :  he  is  a  fool ! " 

Clare  and  her  mother  talked  it  over  more  quietly 
in  Clare's  room.  Anna  Ludwell  thought  of  the  other 
mother,  her  son  cast  off  for  such  a  reason.  Poor  Mrs. 
Morton,  a  most  unhappy  woman,  would  hold  Clare 

208 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

deeply  to  blame  if  she  threw  him  over  now  ;  —  it  was 
the  first  slip  in  a  long  period  of  distinct  effort  and 
gain  in  every  way  for  Dalby,  under  the  present  stim- 
ulus of  joy  and  triumph :  little  Clare  had  not  been 
easy  to  win.  Who  were  all  these  boys  to  marry, 
brought  up  to  the  same  habits  ?  "  If  we  had  had  a 
son,"  thought  Anna,  "he  might  have  been  like 
Dalby "  —  and  some  proud  and  hasty  girl  might 
have  lost  patience  with  him  just  at  the  turning- 
point. 

"You  must  not  write  to-night,  Clare;  sleep  on  it, 
my  child.  It  may  look  differently  in  the  morning." 

"  I  will  not  write,  mother,  but  I  shall  not  sleep.  — 
Not  that  I  care  so  dreadfully.  If  he  is  like  that,  I 
don't  want  him." 

"  You  knew  he  was  like  that ;  your  father  warned 
you.  Yesterday  you  cared  for  him,  knowing  it ;  —  the 
only  difference  is,  you  have  seen  it.  I  don't  defend 
it;  I  defend  him,  because  he  would  have  a  right  to 
say  you  knew  the  fact  before  you  loved  him." 

"I  don't  love  him;  I  am  ashamed  of  him  —  that 
finishes  love." 

Mrs.  Ludwell  sighed.  "  He  's  no  different  from  the 
others  —  in  this  respect ;  a  good  deal  better  in  some 
others." 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  them  ! " 

"  The  very  same  thing —  if  I  must  say  it  —  might 
have  parted  me  from  your  father  once.  But  we  cared 
for  each  other  and  I  had  faith." 

"  Father  is  a  strong  man ;  he  is  all  kinds  of  a  man. 
Dalby  is  nothing,  so  far  as  I  make  him  out.  And  he 

209 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

is  ten  years  older  than  me.  Does  he  never  expect  to 
grow  up  ?  " 

"  He  was  growing  —  when  this  folly  tripped  him." 

"Why  can't  he  have  done  with  his  folly?  How 
would  he  like  it  if  I  kept  on  having  proposals  ?  — 
they  are  just  as  exciting  to  me.  Mother,  you  must  be 
mad  if  you  ask  me  to  take  him  back  ! " 

"  I  ask !  Do  you  think  I  wanted  Dalby  Morton  for 
you  ?  It  was  the  bitterest  disappointment  of  my  life 
when  I  found  that  you  cared  for  him.  His  mother 
and  I  cried  over  you  both ;  I  did  n't  tell  her  why  I 
cried,  but  she  knew.  She  owned  he  was  not  worthy  ; 
I  said,  '  We  '11  make  him  worthy.'  Discard  him  if  you 
must,  but  be  sure  it  is  not  your  own  pride  that  does 
it.  If  any  other  girl  but  Engracia  had  seen  him  — 
any  girl  who  knows  the  men  of  that  set !  You  saw 
him  with  her  eyes  —  the  eyes  of  a  Puritan." 

"  You  are  a  Puritan,  mamma  —  at  heart?" 

"  I  have  had  to  be  something  broader,  darling,  and 
it  has  n't  hurt  me.  But  this  is  your  own  decision;  I 
must  leave  you  to  think  it  out  for  yourself." 

"Good-night,  mother  dear  —  what  a  bad  time 
mothers  do  have !  I  will  show  you  my  letter ;  —  it 
will  be  as  gentle  as  I  can  make  it,  but  it  must  be 
final." 

"You  stake  your  life  on  pride,  then?"  ("I  know 
she  loves  him,"  the  mother  thought.) 

"  Before  I  am  married,  yes,"  said  Clare. 

"...  Of  course  she 's  right,"  said  Clare's  father. 
"  I  should  have  given  Dalby  a  year's  rope  to  hang 
himself.  He's  done  it  sooner  than  I  thought  —  so 

210 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

much  the  better.  Every  day  of  this  silly  affair  was 
a  day  wasted  for  her." 

"  And  yet  I  know  that  she  cares  for  him.  The  world 
is  very  cruel  to  our  girls.  We  give  them  ideals,  but 
how  can  they  keep  them  ?  You  should  have  heard  me 
falsifying  my  own  ideals  for  the  sake  of  a  little  mercy 
to  another  woman's  son — and  because  I  am  afraid 
she  won't  forget  him.  It 's  such  a  dreadful  puzzle. 
Dalby  is  —  what  he  has  to  be.  Look  at  his  weak, 
sweet  mother  and  his  coarse-grained  father,  who 
roots  everything  out  of  his  path  and  then  grovels 
in  it." 

"  Anna,  my  dear ;  you  are  not  yourself  to-night." 

"  Do  you  wonder  ?  I  was  not  proud  of  Dalby,  but 
I  am  fond  of  him,  and  I  would  not  have  hurt  his 
mother  so  for  worlds.  We  must  give  her,  I  suppose, 
the  first  real  light  she  has  ever  had  upon  her  son. 
Mothers  deceive  themselves  as  long  as  they  can." 

"  Not  wise  mothers." 

"  It 's  wretched  and  it's  grotesque.  I  shall  have  to 
listen  to  his  excuses  to-morrow,  poor  boy  —  " 

"  Excuses !  Accidents  of  that  kind  are  not  dis- 
cussed with  ladies.  Simply  mark  him  off  your  list  of 
men  you  invite  except  on  formal  occasions  —  I  '11  see 
that  he  does  n't  come." 

Anna,  knowing  something  of  her  husband's  bache- 
lor past  and  aware  of  the  indulgent  joking  that  goes 
on  among  men,  marveled  at  his  hardness  now.  She 
took  it  as  one  of  nature's  safeguards.  A  man  no 
longer  jests  when  his  own  grandchildren  may  be  heirs 
to  the  pity  that  follows  a  few  generations  of  such 

211 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

mirth.  Old  Judge  Ludwell  carried  his  cups  and  rilled 
them  high  in  his  youth,  which  was  the  city's  youth  — 
he  carried  them  gallantly  to  his  grave.  Thomas  Lud- 
well—  always  skipping  his  father,  who  carried  noth- 
ing, either  in  weight  or  balance,  that  was  noteworthy 
—  filled  his  glass  not  so  high  nor  quite  so  often :  he  was 
still  lord  of  his  inclinations.  His  daughter — and  well, 
perhaps,  that  she  was  a  daughter  — took  her  fine 
nervous  organization  from  her  mother,  and  her  ex- 
citements in  a  different  way.  She  had  gone  through 
her  first  season  with  that  vigor  and  elasticity  which 
is  the  marvel  of  strong  men  in  these  light-clad  slips 
of  girls.  But  turn  the  screw  once  more  in  the  next 
generation,  add  the  risks  on  the  Ludwell  side  to  the 
certainties  on  the  Morton  side —  what  father  who  knew 
the  world  would  tamper  with  that  equation  ? 

Dalby's  card  was  sent  up  next  day,  an  appeal  which 
Clare  hotly  ignored.  He  walked  about  the  bright,  still 
room  trying  to  realize  that  this  might  be  his  last  wait- 
ing there,  watching  the  door  for  a  sight  of  Clare's 
particularly  lovely  and  buoyant  way  of  entering  to 
greet  a  guest.  Near  him  stood  the  piano,  and  open 
on  the  rack  where  she  had  left  it  yesterday  was  the 
last  song  she  would  ever  sing  with  him  beside  her 
on  the  music-bench :  —  only  yesterday  at  this  hour 
they  sat  so  and  at  the  song's  close  she  had  let  her 
head  sink  back  for  his  rapturous  kiss.  It  was  a  song 
called  "  Youth  "  from  Harold  Simpson's  "  Cycle  of 
Life."  ("  Oh,  love,  oh,  love,  we  will  wait  no  more ! ") 
He  heard  the  soaring  crescendo  in  Clare's  entranc- 
ing tones.  They  thought  that  they  knew  all  there  is 

212 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  know  of  youth  and  love  and  the  triumph  which 
disdains  waiting.  —  And  here  came  Clare's  mother 
entering,  alone. 

His  practiced  manner  was  gone ;  his  face  flushed 
and  his  eyes  sank  under  her  cold,  gentle  look.  He 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  quaintly  but  with  genuine 
feeling  that  she  could  not  slight.  She  smiled  as  usual, 
but  there  was  no  hope  for  him  in  her  smile. 

"You  will  plead  for  me,  Mrs.  Ludwell?  —  Ask  her 
to  give  me  one  more  chance.  It  was  not  an  acci- 
dent ;  I  should  call  that  inexcusable !  It  was  a  trick 

—  played  on  me  by  the  man  I  took  a  taxi  home  with 

—  an  asinine  joke.  We  were  both  pretty  much  the 
same,  but  I  was  dozing  when  he  got  out,  and  he  gave 
the  driver  this  address  —  he's  written  his  apologies. 
It  looked  funny  to  him  last  night.  —  I  thought  I  was 
at  the  club,  on  my  word,  I  did,  when  I  blundered  in 
here." 

Mrs.  Ludwell  grew  more  patient  and  more  frozen. 
"  Well,  Dalby,  you  broke  your  word  last  night  for 
the  sake  of  a  custom  you  poor  boys  can't  seem  to 
get  rid  of :  it 's  time  the  girls  began  to  help  you.  I 
don't  suppose  it  is  often  an  engagement  has  been 
broken  in  this  city  on  account  of  a  bachelor  supper, 
but  I  am  glad  that  Clare  has  had  the  courage  to  set 
an  example." 

"  But  to  end  it  all  overnight  —  throw  me  off  with 
that  for  the  last  word  !  What  becomes  of  all  that  was 
true  here  yesterday  ?  —  in  this  room?  A  man's  slips 
are  not  the  man." 

"  His  want  of  self-control  is  the  man  — or  the  boy. 
213 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Clare  is  too  much  of  a  child  herself  to  marry  another 
child."  She  rose  :  "  I  shall  not  take  her  your  apology, 
Dalby :  it 's  as  unpresentable  —  as  you  were,  yourself, 
last  night.  We  women  live  by  our  power  of  seeing 
the  souls  of  the  men  we  love,  but  we  can't  keep  that 
power  if  you  insist  on  destroying  it.  You  and  Clare 
know  nothing  about  that  as  yet.  There  is  a  want  of 
seriousness  on  both  sides.  Dalby  1  for  your  own  sake, 
show  us  that  you  can  be  a  good  loser:  it's  been 
nothing  but  a  game  so  far.  Say  that  we  are  unfair,  if 
you  like,  —  I  don't  expect  to  let  you  come  here  any 
more,  —  but  do  let  us  see  that  this  humiliation  has 
cut  deep  enough  to  do  some  good." 

Dalby  kissed  her  hand  again  very  gently  and  took 
his  dismissal. 

"  It  is,"  she  owned,  "  a  wretched  reason  for  parting 
two  happy  young  persons,  but,  remember,  I  am 
afraid  for  Clare,  too.  She  was  too  angry  last  night 
to  be  just,  and  I  think  there  was  hurt  vanity  mixed 
with  her  tears.  I  shall  not  spare  her !  You  neither  of 
you  know  in  the  least  what  love  is,  and  it  would  be 
unsafe  for  you  to  learn  on  each  other.  I  am  rather 
sorry  for  the  one  you  will  learn  on  —  if  you  under- 
stand me?" 

Clare's  winter  went  off  in  a  round  of  triumphs.  If 
she  had  a  trouble,  she  danced  it  down  under  her 
slender,  tireless  feet;  she  was  said  to  have  had  a 
wonderful  success.  Nothing  actually  was  known, 
though  much  was  repeated  and  taken  for  granted, 
as  to  the  breach  between  her  and  Dalby.  He  went 

214 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

South,  on  business,  it  was  said,  for  his  father.  The 
Ludwell  servants  began  to  ask  their  friends  about 
situations  that  might  be  open  after  Lent.  The  family 
were  closing  up  the  house  and  going  abroad  for 
the  summer.  Mrs.  Ludwell  made  interest  in  behalf 
of  her  deserving  ones;  in  this  way,  a  young  housemaid 
from  Canada,  who  longed  for  the  country,  was  placed 
at  Roadside  where  there  was  a  huge  vacancy  now. 
Moon  had  gone  back  to  China  to  do  a  son's  duty  by 
an  aged  mother  who  was  blind.  "She  die  pretty 
soon,"  he  said  calmly.  "  I  come  back  then." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SCARTH  had  never  for  a  moment  entertained  the 
idea  of  presenting  his  great  mining  and  agricultural 
project  to  Tom  Ludwell  for  sympathy.  He  had  known 
to  a  humorous  certainty  how  the  capitalist  cousin 
would  see  it.  He  would  praise  the  engineer's  imagina- 
tion, admire  his  historical  precedents,  scoff  at  his  cost- 
sheets,  and  treat  the  whole  as  oratory,  about  as  valu- 
able as  a  graduating  thesis. 

But  while  Cornish  had  been  laying  it  out  before 
him  in  terse  business  language,  doing  his  best  with 
the  dream  of  the  dead  who  die  with  their  work  un- 
finished (Cornish  had  imagination  too),  a  point  here 
and  there  lodged  in  the  brain  of  that  other  dreamer 
who  dreamed  in  high-per-cents  tending  toward  the 
pockets  of  Thomas  Ludwell  and  his  friends. 

For  a  number  of  years  he  had  been  matching  the 
pieces  of  a  combine  —  never  consciously  casting 
eyes  on  his  cousin's  scheme ;  yet  the  Torres  Tract 
would  fit  beautifully  into  his  own  puzzle  waiting  to 
be  closed  up.  He  could  have  sworn  on  his  conscience 
that  when  Cornish  asked  him,  man  to  man,  for  his 
counsel,  he  had  been  as  honest  with  the  dead  as  with 
the  living.  An  investor,  he  spoke  for  other  investors, 
fora  woman,  the  guardian  of  her  children's  rights  — 
left  as  his  own  girls  might  be.  That  was  all  about  that: 
Anna  could  say  what  she  liked !  But  a  touch  of  sore- 

216 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ness  as  to  what  she  had  said  made  him  careful  not  to 
mention  a  later  step  which  he  had  taken  in  reference 
to  that  old  stale  bait  for  capital,  the  Torres  Tract. 

Hopeless  as  it  looked  now,  —  when  it  became  wreck- 
age, flat  on  the  market,  it  might  well  be  worth  his 
while  to  pick  it  up.  Not  every  one  could  do  with  it 
what  he  could.  His  own  purpose  would  rather  steam- 
roller the  Scarth  and  Rivington  epoch,  but  only  as 
a  commercial  follows  the  romantic  period  in  the  life 
of  a  community  or  a  nation  or  a  man.  We  all  come 
to  it  at  last,  he  argued  —  the  question,  Will  it  pay  — 
and  when  and  whom  ?  What  "  show  "  are  we  to  have 
in  the  prophetic  future? 

In  due  time  it  seeped  out,  through  one  of  those 
untrustworthy  channels  which  all  schemes  are  pro- 
vided with,  that  Ludwell  and  his  friends  were  lying  in 
wait  for  the  Rivington  stock  in  valley  lands  called 
the  Torres  Tract  —  not  buying  in  their  own  names. 
That  was  common  enough ;  when  Cornish  learned 
it,  he  may  have  smiled  (not  being  so  close  to  Mr.  Lud- 
well's  conscience  as  its  owner)  recalling  the  disinter- 
ested cousin's  advice  that  day  when  it  had  seemed 
to  hurt  him  to  give  it.  As  to  the  information,  he  was 
neither  excited  nor  surprised.  He  made  prompt  use 
of  it,  however.  In  one  of  those  long  thick  letters 
which  went  up  on  Mrs.  Rivington's  tray  at  her 
breakfast-hour  (which  she  answered  herself),  he  ap- 
prised her  of  this  powerful  purchaser  in  ambush.  "  I 
recommend  that  we  hold  off  awhile ;  we  '11  try  a 
policy  of  inactivity.  In  regard  to  young  Scarth's  sal- 
ary —  a  waiting  salary  is  not  supposed  to  rank  as  a 

217 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

working-  one.  Suppose  we  split  the  difference  and  call 
it  —  "  But  it  is  hardly  fair  to  betray  what  Tom  was 
asked  to  stay  on.  It  was  a  just  salary  enough  in  pro- 
portion to  the  poor  old  tract's  revenues.  Cornish  had 
his  own  conscience  of  a  trustee,  and  his  first  duty  was 
to  those  who  constituted  his  chief  responsibility. 

Cousin  Tom  made  ready  his  affairs  for  the  journey 
abroad  in  the  best  of  spirits ;  thankful  to  be  rid  of 
Clare's  foolish  entanglement  with  Dalby ;  seeing  his 
way  clear  at  last  to  the  finish  of  his  old  and  waiting 
scheme  up-country  among  the  water-rights  that 
would  mean  millions  one  day ;  proud  of  the  girls  he 
was  taking  with  him  in  all  the  public  places  of  the 
world.  He  thought  there  were  no  two  like  them. 
Anna,  though  he  deceived  her  a  little  when  it  was 
best  for  her  comfort,  he  loved  for  that  quality  which 
made  it  necessary  to  deceive  her:  her  woman's 
weakness  for  the  losing  side  endeared  her  to  his 
imagination  and  his  heart ;  but  in  business  the  loser 
must  go  to  the  wall.  He  did  not  make  this  world's 
laws.  His  aim  was  to  make  it  a  fair  and  goodly 
heritage  to  those  whom  he  loved,  a  kind  world  to 
his  friends  and  a  proud  world  for  himself  in  the  eyes 
of  other  men  his  peers.  Those  who  noted  his  suc- 
cess, and  especially  those  who  compared  it  with  their 
own  un-success,  usually  called  it  "  LudwelPs  Luck." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MRS.  RlVINGTON  had  not  suited  herself  with  a  house 
in  close  proximity  to  her  sons'  school ;  the  headmas- 
ter, moreover,  hinted  polite  doubts  as  to  the  advis- 
ability in  some  cases  of  a  mother's  hovering  so  near. 
She  heard  of  Roberta  Sands's  big  house  in  a  lovely 
region,  open  to  tenants  (of  sorts)  for  three  months, 
and  took  it  after  the  briefest  consideration  —  which 
was  the  lady's  way. 

Roberta  had  no  sentiment  about  houses,  especially 
ugly  ones,  nor  had  she  any  objection  to  turning  a 
penny  in  rents  while  she  spent  thousands  for  any  ca- 
price that  crossed  her  on  her  wanderings.  It  was  a 
big  penny  Mrs.  Rivington  paid,  but  she  knew  about 
heiresses. 

"  Overleap  "  has  the  perfect  altitude,  on  this  coast, 
of  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea ;  the  fogs  are  below 
it  and  the  snows  on  its  distant  mountain-tops  never 
come  down.  Softness  and  chill  sweeten  the  long 
months  of  sunshine.  It  is  cool  enough  for  roses  and 
rhododendrons  and  hollies,  and  its  banks  and  beds  and 
hedges  of  these  are  the  head  gardener's  pride.  But 
too  many  seasons  their  glory  passed  unseen :  the 
young  mistress  would  be  away,  dreaming  of  epics  in 
gardens,  among  Old- World  vistas  and  fountained  ter- 
races and  water-stairs  and  century-old  avenues.  She 
knew  that  such  gardens  as  these  are  not  made  even 

219 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

with  money  on  a  rush  order  as  Americans  love  to  do 
things.  She  had  high  and  vain  imaginings  in  many 
directions :  it  was  Roberta's  disillusionment  and  mock- 
ing satiety  which  made  her  fascinating.  She  was 
weary  of  most  things  that  were  hers  and  not  yet  pre- 
pared for  some  of  the  compromises  which  are  the  price 
of  what  she  really  did  want  —  a  home  and  children  of 
her  own. 

The  house  faces  a  deep  valley  and  is  backed  by 
noble,  wooded  hills  —  "  the  old  red  hills  "  covered  with 
immense  trees  fed  by  sea-fogs  which  sweep  inland 
in  winter.  Of  its  architecture  the  less  said  the  better. 
The  hearts  were  glad  that  built  it;  they  had  not 
learned  the  pride  of  discontent.  Listening  to  Roberta's 
bored  apologies  for  its  general  mistakenness,  Anna 
Ludwell  keenly  remarked  to  her  spouse,  "  Let  us  be 
wise  in  time :  we  will  wait  till  Clare  grows  up  before 
we  build  our  country-house,  or  she  may  be  apologiz- 
ing for  us." 

But  the  grounds  are  laid  out  with  breadth  and  some 
lovely  features,  like  the  lily-pool  at  the  end  of  a  long 
walk  between  ranks  of  cypresses,  where  the  afternoon 
shadows  lie  as  still  as  on  the  pavement  of  a  church. 
A  mass  of  flickering  bamboo  catches  the  sunlight 
again  beyond  this  dark  pearl  of  water  —  relieved 
upon  a  rich  tapestry  of  oaks  and  pines  and  firs,  and 
glistening  madronos  to  lighten  the  splendid  wall. 

On  the  hills,  mushrooms  grow  in  the  month  of 
February  —  Engracia's  second  month  of  luxurious 
slavery.  We  are  most  of  us  slaves  to  one  thing  or 
another :  Engracia  had  the  satisfaction  that  she  had 

220 


!  THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

chosen  her  own  form  of  bondage  —  tasks  without 
regularity  or  system  done  at  the  impulse  of  a  lady 
whose  moods  she  did  not  understand,  but  whose  per- 
son she  admired  and  whose  company  excited  and  tired 
her.  The  walks  she  had  promised  to  take  she  literally 
stole,  or  she  rose  early  with  the  excuse  of  mushrooms 
and  came  home  breakfastless  and  quite  weak  with 
hunger.  It  was  necessary  to  rise  early,  because  small 
and  some  large  neighbors  got  up  and  had  the  fairy 
crop  all  picked  before  a  servant  was  awake  in  the  big 
house,  and  sold  Overleap  its  own  mushrooms  at  its 
own  kitchen  door. 

This  morning  she  had  sent  her  basket  in  to  the  cook, 
gently  hinting  to  the  pleasant  young  waitress  who 
took  it  that  breakfast  would  be  welcome  when  it  came. 
Feeling  very  gaunt,  she  sat  down  to  sort  last  night's 
mail  just  fetched  from  the  village.  Laying  aside  Mrs. 
Rivington's  personal  letters  to  go  up  on  her  tray,  she 
stacked  the  business  ones,  and,  with  a  breath  of 
quickened  interest,  took  up  her  own  ewe  lamb,  an 
envelope  in  that  hand  which  she  had  once  mistaken 
for  Mrs.  Rivington's — how  different !  Breakfast  called 
her  and  she  read  as  she  ate,  satisfying  a  double 
hunger. 

At  home  she  had  been  the  center  of  her  mother's 
existence;  she  had  been  "faulted"  sometimes,  but 
only  in  trifles  and  because  she  was  so  watched  and 
standardized.  Tom,  with  his  silent  smile,  had  been 
ever  reassuring,  in  a  general  way.  She  missed  these 
dear  presences  constantly.  But  there  was  another 
hunger  that  she  had  lately,  to  her  uneasiness,  begun 

221 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  develop  —  which  fed  upon  letters  in  this  peculiar 
hand.  It  was  a  hand  that  satisfied  the  eye,  to  start 
with :  close-knit,  muscular ;  —  it  looked  illegible  till 
you  were  used  to  its  decided  mannerisms.  Cornish 
had  that  stripped,  lucid  style  which  men  in  the  higher 
walks  of  business  acquire  that  seems  somehow  the 
language  of  a  necessary  integrity.  What  he  said  you 
felt  that  he  meant  and  probably  more  than  he  said. 
And  though  seldom  directly  personal  (except  always 
in  one  sentence  to  show  he  had  not  changed),  his 
argument  and  contents  centered  wholly  on  herself. 
A  dangerous  diet  for  a  homesick  girl  losing  sight  of 
her  own  identity  and  swamped  in  another's  not  yet 
so  dear  as  to  pay  for  the  exchange. 

She  rushed  through  her  letter  tremulously,  read  it 
again,  and  sat  down  with  a  beating  heart  to  answer 
it  in  this  mood.  To  understand  her  frame  of  mind  one 
must  go  a  little  deeper  into  Engracia's  relations  with 
her  dream-lady.  Nothing,  of  course,  is  so  significant  in 
the  talk  of  two  women  who  do  not  wish  to  quarrel  as 
the  subjects  they  avoid.  Engracia  now  no  longer  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  drawn  into  any  discussion  of  the 
past,  where  history  or  memory  of  recent  events  aims 
to  bring  out  some  great  moral  purpose  working  out 
its  ends  through  a  period  of  suffering  and  national 
regeneration :  our  own  Civil  War  being  an  acute  in- 
stance. Mrs.  Rivington,  she  said,  held  no  brief  for  the 
South :  she  merely  asserted  that  all  wars  alike  sprang 
from  prejudice,  ignorance,  and  self-interest  on  both 
sides,  whooped  on  by  catch-words  in  the  mouths  of 
propagandists  more  or  less  sincere ;  and  our  great  and 

222 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

hallowed  conflict  (though  it  resulted  in  emancipation) 
was  no  exception.  Our  poets  might  have  read  the 
Lord's  righteous  sentence  in  the  waste  of  a  whole  gen- 
eration of  the  nation's  youth,  might  see  the  face  of 
Christ  in  the  bivouac-smoke  of  a  "  hundred  circling 
camps,"  and  call  it  dying  to  make  men  free  when  they 
walked  between  rows  of  Northern  soldiers'  graves  — 
but  had  Engracia  seen  the  later  school  histories?  Such 
arrogant  and  profane  injustice  was  not  taught  in  these 
days.  Engracia  had  small  acquaintance  with  school 
histories :  she  had  her  family  traditions,  though,  and 
her  reading,  which  evidently  had  been  along  very  dif- 
ferent lines  from  Mrs.  Rivington's,  and  naturally  she 
did  not  renew  that  or  any  similar  discussion.  This 
was  the  serious  side  of  the  growing  antagonism  be- 
tween her  and  the  lady  whom  she  had  expected  to 
revere.  There  was  another  side  to  it  which  made  rev- 
erence, admiration,  even  less  possible,  and  abolished 
all  feminine  confidences  of  a  delicately  venturesome 
kind.  It  would  be  easy  to  make  too  much  of  what 
led  up  to  it,  but  Engracia  had  resolved  never  to  be 
drawn  into  any  discussion  of  "  men  "  or  of  any  particu- 
lar man,  or  any  phase  of  the  man  and  maid  question, 
with  Mrs.  Rivington.  Her  touch  on  that  subject  con- 
veyed something  which  to  Engracia  was  wholly  new, 
indescribable,  and  revolting.  It  spoiled  for  her  the 
sight  of  that  graceful  woman  in  her  deep  and  most 
becoming  weeds,  dwelling,  as  she  claimed,  night 
and  day,  in  thoughts  of  her  absent  little  sons. 

Because  of  this  deliberate  reticence,  Engracia  had 
now  a  confession  to  make  involving  a  request,  and  both 

223 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

were  too  difficult  to  be  postponed.    Her  pen  traveled 
as  fast  as  she  could  set  the  words  down. 

"  I  think  you  know  that  I  have  told  mamma  what 
happened  on  the  road  to  Dixie  Canon  ;  I  don't  mean 
the  flume  —  that  I  never  have  told  any  one  1  Parts 
of  your  letters,  I  confess  I  used  to  share  with  her ; 
they  were  too  good  to  keep  to  one's  self.  It  was  every 
way  delightful  to  get  them,  at  home,  and  to  hear  her 
praise  them  (mamma  and  I  practically  inhabit  the 
same  body)  and  expatiate  on  the  men  she  used  to 
know.  She  was  even  willing  to  admit  there  are  men 
still  who  can  write  letters.  We  both  agreed  that  I 
was  greatly  honored  in  yours  —  and  you  know  I  en- 
joyed answering  them  —  there:  but  here  it  is  differ- 
ent. I  seem  to  have  Most  countenance.'  I  cannot 
speak  of  you  or  hear  you  spoken  of  without  self- 
consciousness,  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  side  of  my  life  in  this  house  which  I  am 
keeping  from  its  mistress  whom  I  had  hoped  to  have 
felt  toward  as  a  friend.  It  would  astonish  her  into 
very  natural  curiosity  (which  I  should  not  care  to 
satisfy)  if  she  came  to  know  that  I  receive  letters  from 
you  quite  frequently,  read  them  without  mentioning 
them  to  any  one  and  post  my  answers  with  a  certain 
caution  about  their  being  seen.  I  can't  accuse  myself 
of  anything  more  than  a  desire  to  keep  my  affairs  to 
myself,  especially  when  they  include  you  and  your 
affairs.  On  the  other  hand,  you  are  more  her  friend 
in  a  hundred  ways  than  you  are  mine,  and  have  been 
for  years  —  I  realize  that  now.  It  is  impossible  I  should 
go  on  with  this  practically  underhand  correspondence 

224 


with  her  friend,  in  her  house.  And  still  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  be  frank  about  it :  it  would  end  in  having 
to  be  frank  about  you.  I  simply  can't,  and  as  it  is 
probably  a  fault  in  me,  I  must  pay  the  penalty  and 
give  up  your  delightful  letters.  I  thought  it  all  over 
this  morning  on  the  hills  —  wondered  what  I  was 
about  that  I  could  not  be  happy !  It 's  the  false  posi- 
tion, don't  you  see?  Here's  a  letter  from  you  this 
morning  in  the  same  mail  with  one  to  Mrs.  Rivington, 
and  they  do  not  recognize  each  other,  those  letters  — 
That  means  something  wrong,  you  see ;  and  since  it 
must  stop,  it  cannot  stop  too  soon.  Will  you,  then, 
let  this  be  the  last  letter,  on  both  sides?  Your  silence 
will  be  the  most  generous  answer  you  can  make  me. 
No  one  was  ever  more  generous  in  everything. 
"Your  most  grateful 

"ENGRACIA  SCARTH." 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

ENGRACIA  had  learned  now  the  meaning  of  a  Ouija 
board  and  the  amount  of  time  it  could  waste.  She  had 
also  learned  to  expect  no  concentration  from  her  mis- 
tress :  it  was  this  that  tired  her  more  than  anything 
else  and  she  was  very  tired.  So  many  things  were 
started  and  put  aside  —  books  begun,  talked  about 
cleverly,  but  never  finished ;  bills  even  from  humble 
creditors  were  not  promptly  paid ;  reminders  of  all 
sorts  pursued  her  that  her  own  work  was  in  arrears. 
Mrs.  Rivington  required  a  certain  amount  of  bullying 
—  instead  she  caressingly  bullied  Engracia. 

Spring  work  on  the  Torres  Tract  had  begun,  and 
her  home  letters  filled  the  luxurious  exile  with  pas- 
sionate restlessness.  Cornish  was  out  there  now,  but 
no  message  came  from  him  in  her  mother's  hand  — 
if  there  had  been  the  least  thing  to  say  of  him  in  her 
direction,  that  mother,  she  knew,  would  have  done 
it  ample  justice.  He  had  taken  her  at  her  word  :  she 
must  consequently  forget  him  and  live  up  to  her  own 
decision  ;  only  she  longed  for  some  proof  that  he  had 
not  quite  forgotten  her,  that  he  had  not  misunder- 
stood —  had  not  found  her  letter  crude,  wanting  in 
delicacy  and  poise.  It  began  to  seem,  at  times  even 
to  herself,  that  she  had  made  a  situation  out  of  noth- 
ing. Would  he  go  back  to  New  York  without  visit- 
ing Overleap?  As  his  letters  on  business  never 

226 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

passed  through  her  hands,  she  had  no  clue  to  his 
movements,  and  of  late,  she  noticed,  Mrs.  Rivington 
had  ceased  to  speak  of  him  —  half  soliloquizing,  as 
her  habit  had  been,  as  if  she  meditated  upon  him 
as  an  influence  in  her  life ;  which  had  not  struck  En- 
gracia  as  at  all  strange  considering  the  very  promi- 
nent part  her  husband  had  given  him  in  her  and  her 
children's  temporal  affairs. 

They  were  putting  Ouija's  occult  powers,  one  day, 
to  the  test  of  mental  questions. 

"  We  can't  possibly  work  it  in  collusion,"  said  Mrs. 
Rivington  seriously,  "if  we  don't  collude,  even  in 
thought.  Now,  it 's  your  turn,  Engracia :  make  a 
silent  wish,  or  ask  a  question  —  we  '11  see  if  there  is 
anything  in  it." 

Engracia  seated  opposite,  rested  her  finger-tips 
lightly  on  the  board,  but  not  touching  Mrs.  Riving- 
ton's.  In  the  waiting  silence  she  asked  herself :  "  Will 
he  go  back  without  coming  to  see  us?" 

Ouija  did  not  move  for  a  long  and  patient  pause ; 
at  last,  with  a  series  of  odd  jerks,  the  point  of  the 
heart-shaped  board  pushed  its  peg  toward  the  letters, 
"  N— o." 

"  Is  that  what  you  expected  ?" 

"I  simply  wanted  to  know — what  to  expect," 
said  Engracia. 

"  About  what  ?   May  one  be  curious  ?  " 

"  Does  n't  it  seem  as  if  the  questions  we  ask  might 
have  more  real  significance  than  Ouija's  answers  ?  " 

"  Which  means,  you  don't  want  to  tell  me  ?  I  shall 
follow  your  example  then  !  " 

227 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Ouija  appeared  to  have  warmed  to  the  work :  Mrs. 
Rivington  had  scarcely  to  wait  a  moment  for  her 
answers.  She  grew  interested,  absorbed,  and  took 
turn  after  turn,  holding  a  conversation  exactly  con- 
trary to  one  at  a  telephone  —  the  voice,  so  to  speak, 
at  the  other  end  alone  being  heard. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer  to  her  first  silent  question  ; 
to  the  second,  "  Yes";  to  the  third,  "Ten  years." 

"How  many  years?  Say  that  again,  Ouija?" 
—  "Ten  years"  the  little  wooden  peg  spelled  out 
laboriously.  Mrs.  Rivington  became  excited :  "  Ex- 
traordinary ! "  she  cried.  To  her  fourth  and  last  ques- 
tion the  answer  came,  "  In  love." 

"  Well ! "  she  gasped  —  "  that  Js  plain  enough !  " 

"Too  plain,  I  should  think,"  said  Engracia, 
haughtily,  "  if  it 's  supposed  to  mean  anything." 

That  it  meant  much  to  her  companion  was  evident. 
She  rose  from  the  board  and  began  walking  about 
the  room  aimlessly  :  "  Now  I  must  think  1 " 

Engracia  asked,  to  change  a  subject  which  grew 
oppressive,  — "  Would  n't  it  be  nice  to  take  some 
dictating  out  of  doors  ?  I  could  make  my  copies 
early  to-morrow  morning  —  gain  a  lot  of  time." 

Mrs.  Rivington  looked  at  her  with  vacant  eyes. 
"  Go  out  yourself  if  you  want  to,  child.  You  can't 
imagine  what  has  happened  to  me  ! " 

Engracia  had  witnessed  before  in  her  mistress 
these  fits  of  highly  dramatized  feeling  about  the 
merest  trifles  :  they  came  as  the  climax  to  restless- 
ness alternating  with  torpid  brooding.  She  endeav- 
ored to  attribute  such  moods  to  grief  working  out- 

228 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ward  as  she  had  seen  in  her  mother's  case,  through 
pains  of  adjustment  often  difficult  for  another  to 
follow.  It  was  so  difficult  here  that  she  doubted  this 
was  grief,  or  all  of  it  grief.  Her  mistress  was  open 
and  friendly,  and  always  she  meant  to  be  kind,  but 
like  other  ladies  of  acknowledged  charm  she  relied 
on  her  gracious  days  to  make  up  for  days  when  it  was 
easier  to  be  irritable  and  a  trifle  inconsiderate,  even 
cross.  This  again  might  be  another  symptom  of  the 
nervous  disarrangement  she  was  in  retreat  to  cure. 
But  her  curiosity  about  the  future  —  not  the  future 
life,  but  her  own  life  —  puzzled  Engracia.  Her  eager 
questions  might  have  concerned  her  little  sons  —  the 
answers  scarcely  bore  out  that  conjecture. 

Engracia  went  out  and  took  a  hurried  walk  before 
tea.  She  was  very  warm,  and  as  she  rushed  along 
she  arraigned  herself  still  more  hotly  for  these  and 
other  sins  of  thought  against  her  lady.  "  I  came  like 
a  fool  expecting  to  adore  her  —  she  does  not  pay  me 
for  that.  She  pays  me  well  —  a  great  deal  more  than 
I  am  worth.  She  treats  me  superbly :  my  room  is 
sweet !  her  servants  are  my  servants  ;  she  never  con- 
descends—  except  when  she  calls  me  *  child ':  she 
is  n't  a  motherly  person  ;  but  I  ought  to  take  her 
more  simply.  She  makes  me  her  friend  —  though  she 
takes  liberties  without  waiting  till  we  are  friends." 

The  particular  liberty  that  rankled  was  playful 
cross-examinations  on  the  subject  of  lovers :  "  Don't 
tell  me  you  Jve  never  been  made  love  to !  It  always 
shows  in  a  girl's  manner  if  she  has  refused  her  man. 
A  certain  satisfied,  knowing  air  when  the  poor  things 

229 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

are  mentioned,  even  if  she  is  wise  enough  to  say  noth- 
ing. Perhaps  you  refused  him  before  you  were  quite 
aware  of  your  own  mind?"  —  whereupon  Engracia 
had  blushed  maddeningly,  repeating  the  exasperat- 
ing scene  with  Clare.  But  Mrs.  Rivington  was  not 
one's  Cousin  Clare,  nor  a  girl,  herself  1  Nor  had  she 
the  right  to  assail  even  in  jest  the  privacy  of  a  depen- 
dent under  her  roof.  On  days  like  the  present,  when 
some  fresh  irritation  had  come  up,  all  former  charges 
broke  into  the  accusation. 

Her  own  case,  Engracia  took  in  hand  without 
mercy.  "  I  am  a  child  on  a  woman's  errand.  She 
needs  a  business  woman  to  look  after  her :  I  am  as 
unsystematic  as  she  is.  My  typing  is  atrocious  :  I  left 
out  a  whole  page  of  that  important  letter  I  copied 
last  week  for  him  ;  he  had  to  write  for  it.  (There  had 
not  been  one  word  to  show  that  he  had  realized  it 
was  to  her  he  was  writing !)  —  As  for  Ouija,  if  she  is 
obsessed,  what  about  me  ?  Did  n't  I  put  up  my  prayer 
like  another  fool?  (But  I  am  not  a  widow  and  a 
mother.)  And  who  am  I  to  judge  her !  If  I  were  a 
nice  old  lady  in  a  cap,  with  no  wishes  of  my  own, 
I  'd  feel  pity  for  her.  I  am  too  used  to  being  the  cen- 
ter of  everything  myself.  —  And  here  I  am  keeping 
her  waiting  for  her  tea !  A  nice  nurse  I  'd  make  1 " 

"  My  dear  child,  I  forgot  all  about  you,"  Mrs.  Riv- 
ington exclaimed  as  Engracia  entered.  "  I  must  have 
drunk  my  tea  in  a  trance.  Ring  for  Parker  —  there 
were  piles  of  things  to  eat.  What  will  you  have?" 

"  I  '11  just  get  a  glass  of  water,"  said  Engracia.  "  I 
230 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

truly  never  think  of  tea  unless  it  happens  to  be 
around."  She  took  a  sandwich  from  the  tray  left  for 
her  in  the  dining-room,  ate  it  in  haste  and  returned 
to  find  Mrs.  Rivington  in  the  same  unconscious  atti- 
tude seated'  in  a  deep,  low  chair,  her  white  arms  in 
thin  black  sleeves  stretched  straight  before  her,  ex- 
pressionless eyes  fixed  on  the  Sands'  ancestors,  agree- 
ably blackened  by  age,  paneled  on  the  walls. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  what  my  age  was  when  I 
married?" 

"  I  suppose  you  must  have  been  almost  a  child," 
Engracia  answered  as  expected.  She  patted  her  warm 
hands  with  her  handkerchief  —  Parker  had  not  left 
napkins. 

"  I  should  have  been  a  child,  to  any  man :  to  Mr. 
Rivington  I  was  a  child  unborn !  Such  a  difference 
in  age,  you  know,  is  fatal."  She  shook  her  head ;  a 
silence  followed.  "  The  result,  with  me,  was  arrested 
development :  motherhood  took  the  place  of  wife- 
hood,  in  the  fullest  sense."  Her  audience  meditated 
on  the  little  absent  boys  whose  mother  occasionally 
forgot  to  write  them  her  weekly  letter  of  obligation 
—  forgot  that  she  had  forgotten  till  their  own  artless 
letters  reminded  her.  "  There  is  a  new  doctrine  nowa- 
days that  children  should  be  the  whole  thing  in  mar- 
riage :  it 's  blasphemy.  Yet  piles  of  women  tell  you  it 
is  so  with  them.  I  simply  set  them  down  as  liars,  or 
parts  of  women,  or  unfortunates  like  myself:  I  made 
one  of  those  sexless  marriages  and  I  put  it  through 
upheld  by  my  children.  Mr.  Rivington  married  me 
for  what  I  could  be  to  him,  not  what  he  could  be  to 

231 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

me.  He  wanted  children  —  his  first  wife  was  child- 
less, did  you  know  ?  —  I  gave  him  beautiful  strong 
sons.  I  lived  up  to  my  side  of  the  contract  —  It  is 
ended,  but  what  next !  As  a  woman  I  am  as  young 
as  you  are,  Engracia."  Engracia  had  taken  a  chair, 
restraining  the  impulse  to  flight,  to  unsympathetic 
interruptions,  being  fresh  from  that  hour  of  penitent 
self-reckoning.  Many  women  she  supposed  were  like 
this ;  it  was  what  her  mother  meant  by  getting  used 
to  people  —  "  more  people." 

"Something  is  taking  hold  of  me  these  days,"  Mrs. 
Rivington  went  on,  eagerly  self  absorbed.  —  "  Oh, 
I  have  much  to  think  about !  You  must  have  seen 
how  my  mind  wanders  ?  I  am  two  women  all  the  time. 
I  want  you  to  let  me  talk  to  you :  I  want  your  narrow, 
ingkmie  point  of  view,  for  I  am  tempted  to  do  a  dan- 
gerous thing.  If  you,  with  your  fresh  eye,  see  it  as  I 
do  —  brooding  over  it  hours  and  hours,  then  perhaps 
it  is  not  impossible." 

"  I  would  so  much  rather  —  "  Engracia  began ;  she 
was  motioned  to  silence. 

"  Ouija's  answers  this  afternoon  were  simply  hair- 
raising  !  I  asked  —  exactly  what  my  heart  is  bursting 
to  know.  Well ;  I  am  answered !  You  could  n't  have 
guessed  my  questions  —  you  could  n't  have  answered 
them  if  you  had.  As  for  my  mind  doing  it  uncon- 
sciously, you  would  have  felt  my  fingers  on  the  board. 
I  swear  I  did  not  use  a  muscle  1" 

"Don't  you  think  it  might  be  dangerous  to  take  a 
toy  like  that  in  earnest?" 

"If  we  toy  with  dangerous  things,  they  may  take 
232 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

us  in  earnest :  it  is  too  late  for  that  question.  What  I 
am  proposing  to  do  might  succeed  at  first,  and  after- 
wards lead  to  fatal  reactions.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
am  in  the  power  of  a  nature  fed  up  with  every  sort 
of  energy  —  hampered  by  tremendous  self-control. 
A  man  who  has  been  fixed  for  years  in  an  iron 
groove ;  he  has  grown  hard  and  stiff ;  any  hope  he 
indulged  would  be  a  bitter  hope  —  he  would  call  it 
delusion.  It  might  die  for  want  of  a  breath  of  air.  And 
if  nothing  came  to  save  it,  he  —  he  and  I  —  might 
lose  what  we  have  waited  for  long,  wretched  years ! 
I  am  speaking  of  Gifford  Cornish." 

There  was  no  break  in  the  mad  recital ;  but  had 
there  been,  Engracia  could  not  have  spoken  —  she 
must  sit  still  and  continue  to  hear  about  this  sexless 
marriage.  The  words  went  on  and  on,  smothering 
her  with  a  sense  of  unaired  passion,  tainted  friend- 
ship, and  morbidness,  where  he,  at  least,  had  seemed 
so  clean  and  sad  and  sane.  Fragments  of  his  remem- 
bered speeches  came  back  to  sicken  her :  "  Engracia, 
my  soul "  —  "  '  God  being  with  you  when  we  know 
it  not'"  —  could  he  be  that  monstrous  hypocrite? 
It  was  unbelievable,  yet  she  believed,  because  the 
woman  who  talked  believed  —  and  she  sat  there,  and 
they  were  not  mad. 

"  I  tell  you  his  name  —  I  have  to :  a  story  like  this 
sinks  or  swims  according  to  the  persons  who  are  in 
it.  You  don't  know  him,  but  you  can't  have  mistaken 
the  sort  he  is. 

"  This  afternoon,  my  first  question  was,  '  Is  he  think- 
ing of  marriage? ' — you  heard  the  answer !  —  'To  one 

233 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

he  has  known  long?'  —  'Yes'  again.  'How  long?1 
This  time  the  answer  was  curiously  equivocal  yet  true 
to  a  hair.  It  is  just  thirteen  years  since  I  promised  to 
marry  him  —  ten  since  I  broke  the  engagement, 
which  is  when,  I  suppose  he  would  say  he  began  to 
know  me.  I  didn't  break  it  really  —  I  hadn't  the 
strength:  he  released  me.  He  saw  I  was  tired  of 
trouble  and  poverty,  and  there  was  no  hope  of 
change  ahead.  He  was  not  anywhere  near,  finan- 
cially, where  he  is  now,  thanks  to  my  husband.  He 
had  a  mother  who  was  an  invalid,  and  a  sister  who 
had  married  —  as  we  proposed  to  —  on  love  and 
nothing  —  and  came  home  with  nothing  and  a  child 
to  support.  He  never  discussed  his  family,  but  I 
knew  that  he  was  the  only  unselfish  one  among 
them ;  and  people  call  him  hard  I 

"  What  I  did  with  the  freedom  he  gave  me,  you 
see  —  the  remains  of  it !  When  I  married  his  chief, 
there  were  just  two  choices  for  him  —  to  resign  his 
position  with  my  husband  and  never  see  my  face 
again,  or  —  and  he  could  n't  afford  to  lose  a  day,  with 
those  women  depending  on  him  —  submit  to  the 
ordeal  I  had  put  him  to.  Heavens,  how  he  bore  it ! 
Except  for  Ouija's  talk  this  afternoon,  I  know  no 
more  than  you  do  —  never  have  known  —  if  it  even 
was  an  ordeal !  —  whether  he  stopped  caring  for  me 
years  ago,  or  is  eating  his  heart  out  now  in  silence, 
stubborn  as  he  is,  sooner  than  give  me  a  chance  to 
break  him  again.  .  .  .  The  strange  thing  is — he  un- 
doubtedly loved  my  husband  1  So  did  Launcelot  love 
his  king!" 

234 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Engracia  started,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  They  say,"  the  other  went  on  with  her  passionate 
soliloquy,  "  that  you  can't  love  any  one  whom  you 
have  —  even  your  thoughts  —  have  wronged.  He 
would  wrong  no  one  now,  if  he  came  and  took  what 
is  his.  But  will  he  come?  Is  it  my  turn  to  speak  and 
let  him  break  me  1  Would  that  be  generous,  or  mad, 
or  indecent?" 

There  was  no  sound  from  the  stunned  and  blighted 
girl. 

"  Do  say  something,  Engracia.  How  does  all  this 
strike  you?  I  don't  want  made-up  answers  —  your 
thoughts,  just  as  they  come  1 " 

"  I  cannot  have  anything  to  do  with  it :  you  don't 
know  what  you  ask ! " 

"  Don't  be  afraid  :  experience  isn't  what  I  want  — 
intuition.  Come,  answer  up  and  answer  wrong,  if  you 
must." 

"  If  you  believe  Ouija,  is  n't  that  enough?" 

"  I  suppose  this  is  sarcasm ;  seriously  —  I  do  believe 
Ouija  1  She  gave  me  a  fact,  but  what  am  I  to  do  with 
it?  Act  upon  it  or  wait  for  him  to  act?  —  while  we 
both  grow  old ;  and  I  know  so  well  his  bruised,  secre- 
tive pride." 

"That  was  long  ago,"  Engracia  uttered  slowly, 
feeling  her  way ;  "  are  you  quite  sure  that  you  have 
followed  his  life  since?  Men  may  have  *  spiritual  ad- 
ventures,' I  have  heard  it  called." 

"  —  Adventures  with  women,  you  mean?  I  know 
every  woman  he  knows  —  or  has  known.  He  is  not 
a  woman's  man  :  a  woman  he  needs,  but  he  is  difficile. 

235 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

They  angle  for  him  —  he  is  not  pleased.  No  one  ex- 
actly satisfies  him.  I  did  not,  but  I  charmed  him  — 
once.  Am  I  so  changed  ?  How  do  I  look,  candidly, 
to  a  young  thing  like  you  ?  " 

Engracia  turned  away  her  eyes.  "  May  I  ask  one 
question  ?  " 

"  Ask  anything ! " 

"Did  Mr.  Rivington  know  —  was  it  part  of  the 
'  contract '  —  that  you  married  him,  loving  some  one 
else?" 

"  I  did  not  love  —  Cornish,  then,  or  I  should  not 
have  forsaken  him." 

"You  learned  to  love  him  afterwards?" 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  hurt  me,  child  ?  Are  you 
trying  to  ?  " 

"You  hurt  me!  I  believed  that  your  husband — 
we  all  adored  him  —  was  the  happiest  man  on  earth. 
You  have  spoiled  a  marriage  I  thought  was  as  per- 
fect as  my  own  mother's." 

"There  are  no  perfect  marriages,  and  your  own 
mother  could  tell  you  so.  In  her  time  they  did  not 
speak  —  they  lived  their  little  lies  just  the  same." 

"  That  is  a  lie !  —  and  it  is  n't  even  original." 

Mrs.  Rivington  laughed.  "Now  we  are  getting 
down  to  it  1  Talk  to  me  like  that  and  I  shall  know 
what  you  mean." 

"  You  will  know  more  than  I  do,  then.  Please  leave 
me  out  of  this !  I  have  no  business  to  hear  any 
of  it." 

"  That  is  my  business !  If  all  my  most  intimate 
friends  were  here,  do  you  suppose  I  would  ask  them  ? 

236 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Take  it  simply,  you  conscientious  child.  We  are  two 
persons  in  a  book,  say  :  what  should  that  woman  do  ? 

—  There  is  another  thing  I  forgot  to  speak  of:  it 
would  n't  appeal  to  you,  though.  He  is  ambitious, 
and  he  has  never  worked  out  his  own  schemes  with 
his  own  money  in  any  strength.  I  could  give  him 
the  'sinews'  and  the  free  hand  he  has  never  had." 

"  Then,  if  you  have  everything  to  give  and  noth- 
ing to  lose  that  you  seem  to  care  about,  why  do  you 
talk  to  me?" 

"  Because  there  is  something  tantalizing  in  your 
silence.  What  scruple  are  you  keeping  back  ?  I  see 
that  you  feel  this  —  somehow !  What  is  it  you  do 
feel  ?  You  make  me  uneasy." 

"  Perhaps  what  I  think  is  not  what  you  really 
want,  after  all." 

"  Well  —  at  least,  you  have  seen  him  —  later  than 
I  have :  tell  me  how  he  seemed  ?  Was  he  restless  — 
as  I  am  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all ! " 

"  No ;  —  he  would  n't  be !  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
man  —  of  his  age  —  in  love  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  one  man  —  of  his  age  —  when  he 
said  he  was." 

Mrs.  Rivington  barely  heard.  "  He  writes  to  me  as 
if  I  were  a  woman  of  sixty.  That 's  not  natural !  It 's 
a  pose  —  necessary  in  our  present  absurd  relation. 

—  I  must  speak  and  end  this  or  I  shall  go  mad. 

"  Well,  my  dear"  —  Engracia  had  risen  deter- 
minedly :  heavy  heartbeats  of  excitement  choked 
her  speech  —  "  you  shall  go.  You  have  helped  me, 

237 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

though  you  tried  not  to  as  hard  as  you  could.  Just 
putting  my  case  in  words  has  cleared  the  doubts  any 
woman,  I  suppose,  would  have,  no  matter  how  she 
trusted  or  what  reason  she  had  to  believe  that  she 
was  right.  I  can  afford  to  be  generous  and  I  will 
be,  to  the  last  degree :  I  shall  write  him  to  come  — 
if  he  wants  —  what  I  am  ready  to  give  him.  He 
won't  come  to  mock  me  on  my  knees  1  —  Oh,  these 
five  days  1  He  is  at  Roadside  —  he  may  be  here  even 
sooner,  if  he  telegraphs."  As  she  advanced  toward 
Engracia,  she  held  out  her  arms,  apparently  in  for- 
giveness of  the  girl's  unresponsiveness.  Engracia 
evaded  the  histrionic  embrace. 

In  her  own  room  she  bathed  and  dressed  in  cool 
white  and  sought  the  spot  she  loved  best  at  this  tran- 
quil hour.  It  was  a  hill  facing  the  east ;  long  shadows 
from  its  wooded  crest  and  sharp  lights  streamed 
across  the  fresh  green  meadow  at  her  feet.  She  sat 
there  till  dusk  fell  (she  meant  to  be  late  to  dinner) 
and  the  birds  ceased  their  bedtime  twittering.  The 
choreman  came  back  driving  his  milked  cows  and  left 
them  in  the  night-pasture.  At  Roadside,  they  would 
be  sitting  down  to  dinner,  Tom  and  Cornish  and  her 
unsuspecting  mother.  This  made  her  choke.  At  last 
she  could  cry.  The  dreamy,  book-fed  girl  had  en- 
countered life  :  she  had  not  supposed  it  would  offer,  so 
soon,  enigmatical  situations  to  one  with  so  little  past, 
who  had  barely  opened  an  account  with  the  world 
in  her  own  name.  These  were  not  her  complications, 
yet  they  had  swept  her  into  a  network  of  deceit  — 
forced  upon  her  injurious  doubts  and  inferences  in- 

238 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

suiting  to  the  friend  she  had  once  rejoiced  to  own 
and  to  dream  of.  To  see  him  now  so  altered  in  an- 
other's words  seemed  less  like  life  than  like  the  plot 
of  a  sterile  modern  drama. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"How  is  one  to  understand  that  girl ?"  Tones  and 
looks,  which  Mrs.  Rivington  had  not  fully  measured 
in  their  last  remarkable  conversation,  began  to  react 
upon  her  calmer  mood.  The  only  theory  that  seemed 
to  cover  the  girl's  disturbance  of  mind  (combined 
with  unnatural  reticence)  was  one  in  keeping  with 
her  own  persistent  thought. 

"  The  poor  child  must  be  in  love  with  him  herself. 
What  a  fool  I  am !  —  Of  course  —  shut  up  in  the 
same  house  with  him  —  a  place  where  they  never  see 
any  one  !  He  must  have  been  the  first  clever  man  she 
had  ever  talked  with."  —  She  had  long  thought  of  her- 
self, in  the  hid  places  of  imagination,  as  Guinevere 
—  her  Launcelot  had  met  his  Elaine,  the  "simple 
heart  and  sweet."  These  being  different  times,  that 
heart  had  not  broken  her  —  "  But  I  was  certainly  un- 
merciful 1  —  I  must  spare  her  now.  She  must  be  given 
some  excuse  for  absence  when  he  comes." 

He  did  telegraph :  he  did  not  keep  her  waiting. 
She  mastered  her  quick  breath  and  stated  to  Engra- 
cia  quietly :  "  He  is  coming ;  he  will  be  here  to-mor- 
row." 

When,  a  little  later,  Engracia  awkwardly  broached 
a  plan  for  spending  a  few  days  in  the  city,  Mrs. 
Rivington  instantly  met  her  and  all  was  arranged  — 
somewhat  to  Engracia's  bewilderment.  As  they 

240 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

talked,  it  became  clear  to  her  that  without  any  ex- 
cuse or  delay  she  and  her  lady  must  part :  there  was 
duplicity  on  both  sides  now.  Mrs.  Rivington's  man- 
ner had  altered  within  the  hour.  She  was  careful, 
solicitous  —  she  was  altogether  incomprehensible. 
Engracia  was  frankly  afraid  of  this  new  attitude.  It 
doubled  her  own  feeling  of  trapping  and  being  en- 
trapped. 

"  I  shall  take  more  than  a  suitcase,"  she  said. 
"  When  I  get  as  near  home  as  San  Francisco,  I  may 
go  the  whole  way.  Would  it  inconvenience  you,  if  — 
I  did  not  —  if  I  should  decide  not  to  come  back?" 

Mrs.  Rivington  was  singularly  ready  to  under- 
stand. "  Nothing  inconveniences  me.  I  am  on  the 
rack  —  I  feel  nothing  but  what  I  have  done  and  what 
is  to  come  of  it ;  I  am  honestly  better  alone.  You  di- 
vine everything,  my  dear,  grave,  gentle  Engracia." 

"Dear,  grave,  gentle  Engracia"  flew  with  her  re- 
covered freedom  to  her  room  and  began  packing  for 
home.  It  is  not  a  long  task  to  pack  a  wardrobe  like 
Engracia's  —  she  made  it  as  long  as  possible  ;  hours 
were  before  her.  Luncheon  waited  for  the  mistress, 
who  had  gone  on  a  catering  quest :  among  other 
plans  for  her  guest's  welcome,  she  proposed  to  feed 
him.  Clothes  —  her  own  —  entered  also  into  these 
dreams.  Her  maid  was  told  to  lay  out  everything  she 
had  with  her  that  was  "  white  "  in  her  dressing-room, 
at  four. 

At  half  after  four,  Engracia  went  for  a  walk,  and 
was  scarcely  out  of  the  grounds  when  callers  drove 
up  to  the  house  —  early  birds  from  the  city.  Mrs. 

241 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Rivington  received  them  with  impatience,  inter- 
rupted in  the  important  consultation  with  her  maid. 

"  And  how  have  you  stood  it  all  alone,  up  here,  all 
winter?"  the  young  lady  of  the  visiting  party  in- 
quired briskly. 

Her  mother  gave  her  an  amused,  cautioning  look : 
widows  in  retreat  are  not  asked  if  they  are  bored. 
Her  own  manner  conveyed  a  just  appreciation  of  the 
circumstances,  including  Mr.  Rivington' s  extra  years 
and  the  fortune  he  had  left.  She  had  known  all  about 
this  marriage  at  the  time.  His  first  wife  was  a  lady. 
Every  one  knew  what  this  woman  had  married  him 
for :  even  her  jilting  of  Cornish  revived  in  her  mem- 
ory, and  added  a  certain  interest  to  her  daughter's 
artless  but  decided  "  break  "  which  followed  later  on. 

"  I  Ve  not  been  quite  alone,  you  know  :  a  niece  of 
Mrs.  Ludwell's  has  been  with  me  —  Miss  Scarth." 

"  Oh,  Engracia  Scarth !  She  Js  a  cousin  —  awfully 
nice  girl.  Have  you  known  her  long  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rivington,  ignoring  the  question,  addressed 
the  young  girl's  mother,  stating  the  nature  of  her  ar- 
rangement with  Miss  Scarth  and  its  enviable  results. 

"  How  lucky  it  turned  out  so,"  she  replied  with- 
out enthusiasm.  "  I  should  have  been  afraid.  —  So 
awkward  when  it  does  n't  turn  out,  if  it 's  any  one 
you  know." 

The  lively  daughter  thrust  in  again :"  That 's  very 
sad,  I'm  afraid,  for  poor  Mr.  Cornish!  You  must  n't 
make  too  good  a  secretary  of  Engracia,  Mrs.  Riving- 
ton—  everybody  says  she  ought  to  marry  him." 

"Are  you  speaking,"  said  Mrs.  Rivington,  her 
242 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

voice  regulated  while  her  face  grew  slowly  white,  "  of 
Gifford  Cornish  who  was  out  here  last  fall  ?  He  's  a 
friend  of  mine,  too." 

"Oh,  then  perhaps  you  can  help  it  on!  But  it's 
rather  fatal  when  girls  do  something  and  like  it !  I 
should  be  afraid  of  you,  in  his  place." 

"  I  would  n't  repeat  all  that  talk,  dear,"  the  mother 
warned.  "  Such  a  lot  of  things  are  said." 

"  But  I  had  it  straight  from  Clare,  mamma.  And  1 
saw  them  together  myself  at  the  Ludwells'  one  night 
last  winter —  it  was  a  clear  enough  case  then." 

"On  which  side?"  Mrs.  Rivington  asked  blandly 
with  flashing  eyes. 

"Oh,  on  his,  decidedly  —  it's  all  off,  though:  she 
won't  take  him.  Quite  a  score  for  her;  —  but  she's 
very  clever,  they  say."  « 

"  Mamma,  you  seem  to  be  thinking " —  a  fact 
that  apparently  called  for  explanation.  The  visitors 
had  driven  a  mile  or  so  in  silence,  on  their  way 
home. 

"I  was  thinking  —  Mrs.  Rivington  certainly  needs 
a  '  cure'  of  some  kind :  she  was  so  nervous  she  could 
hardly  handle  the  tea-things.  I  'm  sure  she  dropped 
the  sugar-tongs  three  times." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  is  wonderfully  handsome  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  used  to  be.  I  thought,  to-day,  she  looked 
like  a  ghost — a  furious  ghost.  You  said  all  the  wrong 
things  you  could  possibly  think  of ;  —  why  could  n't 
you  leave  Gifford  Cornish  alone !  She  was  engaged 
to  him  once  —  before  she  met  Mr.  Rivington." 

243 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  But  she  did  n't  marry  him !  If  she  got  over  it, 
why  should  n't  he  ?  " 

"  She  had  her  reasons  for  not  marrying  him  then. 
There  is  an  old  saying  about  some  girls:  —  *  she '11 
never  dance  with  the  mate  if  she  can  dance  with  the 
captain/  Could  n't  you  see  how  disturbed  she  was 
when  you  talked  of  his  attentions  to  Engracia?" 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  she  was!  She's  had  her 
'captain' ;  it  seems  rather  soon  to  be  thinking  about 
another  one." 

"  It 's  queer  how  you  stumble  upon  things  in  peo- 
ple's lives  you  've  no  business  to  know.  Now  remem- 
ber not  to  speak  of  this :  it 's  only  my  impression  that 
she  was  hurt  by  what  we  said.  I  may  be  quite  wrong." 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE  ordeal  was  over.  Mrs.  Rivington  watched  her 
guests  depart;  she  turned  and  walked  the  corridor 
rapidly,  her  long  dress  sweeping  the  shadows  from 
column  to  column  as  she  passed.  At  the  end  she  saw 
Engracia  standing  by  the  cypress  pool,  motionless,  her 
head  bent,  gazing  at  the  water.  Suddenly,  as  if  warned 
that  she  was  watched,  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
straight  into  the  eyes  of  her  antagonist.  A  leveled 
pistol  could  not  have  delivered  its  message  more 
frankly.  She  came  forward  —  not  so  frightened  as 
numbed  by  the  sensation  of  seeing  hate  for  the  first 
time  in  the  eyes  of  a  human  being  directed  at  herself ; 
she  had  never  encountered  such  a  look  from  even  a 
dog. 

"  Now,  will  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  this 
abominable  treachery  ?  I  have  just  heard  it  as  a  piece 
of  common  gossip  that  he  is  your  rejected  lover !  — 
And  you  encouraged  me  to  send  for  him  1 " 

Engracia  went  past  her  into  the  house  and  was 
followed  and  again  confronted.  She  sat  down,  con- 
fused and  dizzy,  while  a  wave  of  throbbing  weakness 
darkened  the  room  before  her  eyes. 

"  First,  I  want  it  from  your  lips,  Engracia :  is  it  true 
that  you  refused  him?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  did  not  know  it  was  known." 

"  My  God !  What  can  I  say  to  you  ?  " 
245 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  I  see  how  it  must  look  to  you  —  You  took  me  by 
surprise.  I  could  not  seem  to  stop  your  saying  those 
things  —  Afterwards,  I  could  only  keep  still.  If  you 
knew  each  other  so  intimately,  how  could  /  pretend 
to  know  him  ?  As  for  gossip  —  if  you  think  that  I 
started  it,  then  you  will  have  to  think  so :  it  is  a 
question  of  what  you  think  of  me.  That  is  all  I  can 
say." 

The  woman  leaning  on  the  piano  —  where  they 
had  practiced  duets  together  amicably,  for  hours  to- 
gether—  stared  at  the  girl  lying  back  white  and 
shivering  in  her  chair.  "  There  is  one  thing  you  can 
say.  If  you  refuse  to  speak,  I  shall  know  this  time  what 
your  silence  means.  Was  everything  at  an  end  be- 
tween you  when  you  came  here  to  me?" 

"  I  had  refused  him ;  we  were  still  friends." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  —  Did  you  write  to  each 
other?" 

"  For  a  time.  The  letters  stopped  after  I  came  — 
not  at  first  —  " 

"Who  stopped  them?" 

"  I  asked  him  not  to  write  —  I  have  n't  heard  from 
him  since." 

"  And  all  this  went  on  here  in  this  house !  You 
never  breathed  his  name  —  you  must  have  been  sly 
about  mailing  your  letters,  and  hidden  his.  My  God, 
my  God  1  I  could  easily  kill  you.  Murder  does  not 
seem  strange  to  me  now.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  my 
saying  —  ?  But  what  haven't  I  said!  I  opened  my 
whole  heart  to  you,  and  you  '  fooled  me  to  the  top 
of  my  bent.' . . .  That  you  should  have  the  power  —  1 

246 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Why,  I  took  you  for  pity's  sake  almost :  I  knew  your 
mother's  poverty." 

"At  least  you  can  spare  my  mother  —  and  my 
father  1  But  if  you  could  listen  —  there  is  one  ex- 
planation that  seems  possible.  A  man  might  think  he 
would  never  be  able  to  get  what  he  wanted  in  this 
world  and  take  up  with  some  simple  remedy  —  for 
pain  he  was  tired  of  bearing.  He  may  have  tried  me 
as  a  sort  of  anodyne.  I  am  more  bewildered  than  you 
can  be :  it  is  easy  for  you  to  believe  me  a  traitor,  but 
it 's  very  hard  for  me  to  think  of  him  as  a  fool  —  a 
false  fool,  a  low-minded  man  not  too  proud  to  take 
advancement  from  a  friend  whose  wife  he  was  loving 
in  secret  all  the  time.  If  you  care  to  know  how  you 
have  hurt  me  —  that  is  how." 

Mrs.  Rivington  had  seated  herself,  working  her 
fingers  nervously  on  the  chair-arms.  "That  might 
be  possible,"  she  said,  "  if  he  had  not  asked  you  after 
I  was  free.  He  never  had  seen  you  before  this  sum- 
mer, had  he  ?  " 

"  '  Free ' !  —  you  called  it  that  —  when  your  husband 
gave  his  life  to  save  a  little  child  1  If  that  is  *  love ' 
—  you  —  you  may  have  it !  I  would  rather  die  —  " 
Tears  came  at  last,  wild,  ruinous  sobs  that  tore  all 
disguise  from  the  young  heart  agonizing  at  the  ex- 
posure. 

"  Ah,  now  we  are  equals  ! "  the  other  sighed.  "You 
love  him  too.  Now  you  begin  to  seem  human.  Was 
it  some  crazy  notion  of  self-sacrifice  made  you  hide 
all  this  ?  —  was  it  for  his  sake  —  a  richer  woman  — 
that  sort  of  thing  ?  I  could  be  generous  to  anything 

247 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

short  of  a  cool,  deliberate  traitor  who  had  played 
with  me.  —  If  you  are  hurt,  too,  I  might  try  to  for- 
give you." 

"  Don't !  —  I  don't  want  your  forgiveness,  or  your 
pity.  I  will  not  be  persecuted  for  a  man  I  never 
wanted  to  marry,  don't  want,  and  would  not  take  — 
now  — if  he  were  the  last  man  on  earth." 

"  Well,  that  is  sufficient,"  said  Mrs.  Rivington  rising 
with  an  ominous  smile.  "  Now  we  understand  each 
other." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AN  hour  had  passed  since  Cornish  arrived,  punctual 
to  his  telegram,  and  nothing  but  maddening  com- 
monplaces had  been  exchanged  between  him  and  his 
guarded  hostess.  This  was  a  fight  for  life.  She  was 
thinking :  "  He  would  be  slow  to  open  the  subject,  in 
any  case;  he  would  find  it  hard  to  begin  —  "  After 
a  while,  suspense  growing  unbearable,  she  made  a 
bold  thrust  in  the  dark. 

"  Were  you  able  to  understand  my  letter,  Gifford, 
or  did  you  simply  think  me  mad?" 

"  Have  you  written  me  lately?"  He  smiled  at  her 
familiar  extravagance  in  putting  a  matter  which  he 
took  to  be  merely  one  of  her  states-of-mind.  Her 
moods  were  so  many  and  her  concealments  (from 
him)  so  few,  hardly  anything  she  could  have  said, 
short  of  asking  him  to  marry  her,  would  have  sur- 
prised him  much. 

"You  did  not  get  a  letter  from  me  this  week?  — 
yesterday,  it  should  have  been  —  directed  to  Road- 
side?" 

"  Yesterday  I  was  in  San  Francisco  on  my  way  here. 
I  shall  probably  get  it  in  New  York.  Was  it  impor- 
tant?" 

She  executed  a  swift  curve,  as  a  diver  reverses  who 
sees  the  bottom  too  near.  "  Important  —  that  you 
should  not  get  it !  It  was  quite  the  Grossest  letter  I 

249 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ever  wrote  you.  I  will  thank  you  very  much  to  send 
it  back  to  me,  unread.  The  place  for  bitter  words 
between  friends  is  —  where  this  shall  go  —  in  the 
fire." 

Cornish  still  smiled.  "You  may  find  on  second 
thoughts,  or  third  —  that  I  deserve  it  yet.  Why  were 
you  cross  with  me  ?  " 

"Why  am  I  anything!  You  know  how  the  least 
little  thing,  where  I  trust  people,  sets  me  back.  Why, 
when  you  had  put  that  girl  under  my  care,  could  n't 
you  have  trusted  me,  Gifford  ?  You  were  in  love  with 
her  —  hoping  to  win  her  —  and  you  were  afraid  to 
tell  your  oldest  friend." 

He  looked  at  her  hard  and  steadily  through  the  dark 
distressed  color  that  burned  in  his  face.  "  In  the  first 
place — I  did  not  put  her  here.  I  was  strongly  opposed 
to  her  coming ;  but  as  I  was  not  altogether  satisfied 
with  my  reasons  for  not  wishing  it,  I  gave  way  — 
knowing  that  trouble  would  come  of  it." 

"  How  could  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  you,  Lisa.  — Where  is  she?" 

Escape  looked  so  sure  and  so  sweet,  she  could 
afford,  while  pride  took  breath,  to  elaborate  her 
scheme  a  little.  She  gave  a  gesture  expressive  of 
things  unspeakable.  "  Any  one  might  know  how  it 
would  end !  —  two  women  shut  up  in  the  country 
alone  all  winter  1  We  became  astonishing  friends  — 
then  we  grew  confidential ;  the  inevitable  topic  —  I 
hate  to  flatter  you,  but  you  were  our  only  mutual 
man — the  only  one  we  could  discuss.  What  can  you 
expect,  Gifford,  if  you  will  go  wooing  these  children? 

250 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

It  made  your  old  friend  wroth  to  hear  this  proper 
little  maiden  weighing  her  feelings —  how  highly  she 
esteemed  you,  yet  how  still  more  highly  she  valued 
her  own  conscience  in  refusing  you.  I  took  care  to 
let  her  know  in  a  general  way  what  you  stood  for  in 
the  world." 

Cornish  set  his  teeth.  "  Could  you  tell  me  just  what 
happened  here,  and  why  she  has  left  you?" 

"  But  nothing  did  happen  —  except,  as  I  say,  we 
talked  about  you.  We  had  *  words,'  if  you  must  know. 
She  resented  my  scolding  her  a  little  for  what  she 
seemed  to  me  to  be  throwing  away  in  ignorance 
of  its  worth ;  suddenly  she  wanted  to  go  to  town  — 
that  was  when  she  heard  you  were  coming.  Then 
she  asked  if  it  would  inconvenience  me  if  she  made 
it  home  instead,  and  stayed  there.  I  could  only  sup- 
pose she  was  too  homesick  to  bear  the  place  any 
longer  or  was  running  away  from  you.  This  is  what 
is  called  a  '  business  relation '  between  two  women. 
You  don't  seem  amused?" 

Cornish  studied  her :  he  was  baffled.  Something 
serious  lay  beneath  all  this  hurried  emphasis  on  trifles : 
—  neither  was  she  amused.  Her  face  was  ghastly 
pale  with  purple  patches,  her  hands  trembled,  her 
laugh  was  shocking.  He  smashed  through  every- 
thing :  — 

"  Lisa,  I  came  here  to  take  you  into  my  confidence 
formally,  before  making  Miss  Scarth  a  second  offer 
of  marriage  in  your  house.  It  was  late,  I  own,  if  I 
had  been  bound,  as  you  seem  to  feel  I  should  be, 
to  ask  your  sympathy  as  a  friend.  I  could  not  have 

251 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

assumed  that  my  private  affairs  were  of  such  interest 
to  you." 

"  You  were  very  good  to  consider  me  even  as  a 
chaperon ;  employers  are  not  as  a  rule  so  honored. 
Thank  you !  I  am  sorry  the  child  has  gone." 

"  May  I  ask  for  a  cup  of  coffee  early  to-morrow 
morning  —  about  seven  ?  I  must  catch  the  Overland 
going  East." 

"  Why  don't  you  wait  for  your  own  train  in  the 
evening? — so  much  more  comfortable;  and  we  have 
n't  half  finished  our  talk." 

"  I  am  going  back  to  Roadside." 

She  was  startled,  but  only  for  an  instant.  "  Why 
in  the  world;  Gifford,  don't  you  pick  out  some  one 
there  is  some  little  chance  of  your  winning  ?  —  you 
have  no  time  to  lose,  my  friend.  Disappointments  cost 
at  our  age." 

Cornish  said  nothing :  he  merely  watched  her. 

"  You  will  hate  me  if  I  repeat  her  words  —  ! " 

"Then,  why  do  you?" 

"  Because  I  care  more  for  my  friends  than  I  do  for 
their  praise,  or  even  their  good  opinion  —  as  long  as 
I  know  I  deserve  it  —  in  their  behalf.  Her  telling  me 
was  no  special  compliment,  as  it  is  all  over  San 
Francisco.  But  why  permit  her  to  wipe  up  the  whole 
Coast  with  you !  '  Quite  a  score  for  her ! '  —  that  was 
one  little  remark  I  had  to  listen  to,  with  other  com- 
ments on  your  defeat  at  the  hands  of  youth  and  in- 
experience." 

She  watched  him  swallow  the  draught  she  had 
mixed:  in  spite  of  all  those  flavors  of  reckless  imag- 

252 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ination  for  which  he  was  prepared,  he  tasted  truth  at 
the  bottom.  These  were  the  dregs  at  last  1  Unwise 
confidences  may  be  captured  in  the  case  of  an  expert 
like  Lisa,  with  a  young  girl  under  her  roof,  but  for 
chatter  there  is  no  hope.  That  which  his  little  girl, 
as  he  called  her,  had  said  in  her  last  letter  —  about 
telling  "mamma"  (it  had  sounded  as  if  she  were 
twelve  years  old),  he  refused  to  think  of. 

Lisa  could  go  on  coolly  now  :  she  saw  his  purpose 
sicken  and  die  before  her  eyes.  The  great  Cornish, 
whose  mind  for  years  she  had  sought  in  vain  to  pene- 
trate, sat  helpless,  hoodwinked,  sick  at  heart;  she 
had  him  ensnared  and  she  tied  the  knot  which  made 
it  safe  to  leave  him. 

"  Come ;  I  may  as  well  be  hanged  for  an  old  sheep 
as  a  lamb !  And  if  I  'm  to  be  punished,  you  shall  take 
your  share.  These  were  her  last  words  when  we 
parted:  *I  will  not  be  persecuted  —  "persecuted"! 
about  a  man  I  never  wanted  to  marry,  don't  want, 
and  would  n't  take — if  he  were  the  last  man  on 
earth.'  We  have  heard  that  statement  before,  but 
in  this  case  I  think  there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in 
it.  She  is  a  girl  who  certainly  understands  herself,  if 
she  does  n't  always  do  justice  to  some  other  people." 

In  the  triumph  of  her  inventive  powers,  she  had 
exploited  him  to  her  heart's  desire.  Who  was  humil- 
iated now !  It  was  a  finished  piece  of  work.  There 
would  be  no  visit  to  Roadside  with  revealing  talks 
to  Engracia  which  might  have  ruined  all  her  web  of 
fearful  fancy.  Cornish  admitted  to  himself  that  this, 
too,  had  the  unmistakable  sound  of  a  back-handed 

253 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

truth  about  as  pleasant  as  those  which  "  listeners  " 
are  supposed  to  hear  concerning  themselves.  For  the 
present  it  was  enough :  —  much  might  happen  before 
he  crossed  the  continent  again. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

TOM  asked  no  questions  and  smiled  content  to  see  En- 
gracia  at  home  again  ;  but  nothing  less  than  the  whole 
truth  extracted  by  degrees  would  satisfy  her  mother. 
She  went  over  everything,  even  to  Engracia's  last 
and  strange  conversation  with  Cornish  at  the  Lud- 
wells'.  "  What  was  that  speech  of  his  ?  —  a  child  play- 
ing on  the  edge  of  a  precipice? —  But  there  lies  the 
whole  explanation !  He  was  afraid  to  trust  you  with 
the  woman :  he  suspected  her  good  faith.  She  had  a 
bit  of  his  life  at  her  mercy  —  which  he  had  no  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  —  and  he  knew  her  way  of  thinking 
and  her  habit  of  '  unstanched  speech.'  No,  no ;  you 
can't  persuade  me  that  a  man  cares  for  a  woman  or 
even  respects  her  much  if  he  can  speak  of  her  —  if 
he  can  warn  a  young  girl  against  her  —  in  that  way. 
Remember  the  caution  about  your  walks !  What 
man  who  loves  a  woman  would  not  be  confident  of 
any  one's  comfort  and  happiness  in  her  house.  You 
have  got  this  all  twisted,  my  daughter." 

"  Mother  —  please  don't  get  me  twisted !  It  is  no 
concern  of  mine  —  But  the  facts  are,  she  wrote  him 
to  come ;  her  letter,  she  said,  would  tell  him  why  — 
And  he  came,  or  was  coming :  I  heard  his  telegram 
—  They  are  absolutely  different  persons  to  me,  now, 
both  of  them." 

"Time  will  show,"  said  Caroline.  "  If  anything  is 
255 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  happen  it  will  happen  soon  —  and  we  shall  hear 
of  it." 

They  heard  nothing.  In  November  a  letter  came 
from  Cousin  Anna  in  Italy.  She  spoke  of  Roberta 
Sands's  engagement  to  Dalby  Morton,  as  one  men- 
tions a  piece  of  old  news,  the  marriage  to  be  in  Lon- 
don in  the  spring.  But  about  Christmas,  death  inter- 
posed —  Mrs.  Morton's  "  troubles  were  over,"  as  her 
friends  put  it.  Dalby  gave  up  a  trip  to  Egypt  with 
Roberta  and  a  gay  party,  and  came  home  to  be  with 
his  father  in  the  big  gloomy  house  where  the  poor 
lady  ended  her  days  as  she  had  spent  them,  sur- 
rounded with  finished  care,  yet  spiritually  alone. 
Old  Mr.  Morton  missed  her  in  his  fashion :  he  was 
restless,  irascible,  ill  of  a  complication  of  complaints ; 
his  doctors  finally  sent  him  away  to  Mannheim,  and 
Dalby  kept  bachelor's  hall  and  busied  himself  look- 
ing after  his  father's  affairs,  not  unsuccessfully  it  was 
observed.  He  wrote  often  to  Roberta,  letters  which 
that  clever  young  woman  smiled  at  fondly  as  at  the 
painstaking  efforts  of  a  child :  his  intellect  was  not 
the  side  of  Dalby  that  appealed  to  her.  She  had  quite 
a  man's  broad  way  of  seeing  some  of  the  things 
young  men  of  his  type  do ;  but  on  certain  points  she 
was  vigilant  and  scornful.  Dalby's  own  fortune  in 
prospect  put  him  out  of  the  class  of  suitors  with  half 
an  eye  or  more  than  half  to  her  possessions,  but  with- 
out it,  no  one  would  ever  have  questioned  his  disin- 
terestedness in  friendship  or  in  love. 

All  winter,  it  was  remarked,  he  stayed  faithfully 
"  on  the  water-wagon  "  — whether  for  Roberta's  sake 

256 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

or  because  of  his  recent  chastisement,  or  as  a  tribute 
to  the  gentle  shade  that  in  those  empty  rooms  and 
corridors  seemed  to  be  waiting,  speechless,  wherever 
he  did  not  look.  Sometimes  he  actually  did  look  sud- 
denly, half  expecting  to  see  his  mother's  face.  Plainly 
he  had  settled  down :  he  was  no  longer  so  gay  and 
"fascinating,"  but  he  steadily  won  respect  in  quar- 
ters where  he  had  never  been  taken  seriously  before. 

Cornish  spent  a  peculiarly  busy  winter.  He  did  not 
write  to  Engracia,  nor  did  he  burn  her  letters ;  he 
did  nothing  impulsive,  but  he  thought  of  her  con- 
stantly —  thinking  of  other  things  meanwhile.  It  was 
at  night  he  argued  the  situation  over  and  over  with 
a  baffled  sense  of  missing  evidence.  He  maintained 
a  dream  companionship  with  her  —  and  this  at  times 
was  worse  than  a  total  breach  —  he  talked  to  her 
alone  in  the  lighted  streets  when  he  took  his  walk 
after  dinner  —  on  which  sleep  depended.  He  thought 
of  her  when  he  read  books  they  would  have  liked  to 
discuss.  He  learned,  too,  what  it  means  to  have  one's 
trouble  leap  at  one  out  of  chance  verses  of  poetry, 
to  have  the  writers  know  about  it,  to  meet  it  in  the 
essays  and  stories  in  the  magazines.  He  read  more 
novels  than  ever  in  his  life  before  and  more  foolish 
ones  —  This  lasted  all  winter. 

One  evening  of  the  following  spring,  a  friend  called 
early  to  ask  him  to  join  him  at  a  new  play.  He  was 
told  that  Mr.  Cornish  had  just  stepped  out  for  a  bit 
of  a  walk  —  would  surely  be  back  directly.  He  waited 
—  in  Cornish's  library,  the  back  parlor  of  a  narrow 

257 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

old  New  York  house  modestly  refitted  for  his  bache- 
lor use.  A  big,  male  volume  lay  open  on  the  book- 
covered  table.  Cornish  read  much  on  irrigation,  now 
that  he  could  study  the  subject  free  from  financial  re- 
sponsibilities connected  with  its  works.  That  they 
were  seductive  in  the  extreme  he  could  not  deny.  He 
read  with  curious  haltings  and  comparisons  and  occa- 
sional twinges  of  doubt  —  as  to  a  late  decision  of  his 
own.  The  spirit  of  Scarth's  dead  dream  seemed  to 
hover  over  his  perusal  of  that  absorbing  book.  But 
a  man  has  more  than  one  side  to  his  musings  — 

The  visitor  seated  himself  in  Cornish's  chair,  back 
to  the  light  and  feet  to  the  fire  ;  th'us,  in  the  owner's 
very  attitude,  he  took  up  the  book  he  had  been  read- 
ing, Willcox's  "  Egypt,"  and  out  of  it  into  his  lap  fell 
a  newspaper  cutting.  It  appeared  to  be  a  reviewer's 
extract  from  some  volume  of  recent  verse.  As  he  read, 
he  smiled  to  himself :  it  struck  him,  from  his  scant 
knowledge  of  Cornish's  taste,  as  a  somewhat  fervid 
selection,  and  he  wondered  if  it  might  be  treated  as 
symptomatic. 

"Hurt  me!  For  your  dear  sake  I  could  be  driven 
With  whips  of  scorpions  and  smile  at  fate. 
Hurt  me!  It  greatens  me — it  greatens  even 
The  love  I  have  that  is  already  great. 
If  you  were  always  dear  and  sweet  and  true, 
And  came  to  me  with  kisses  and  delight, 
How  could  I  show  the  love  I  have  for  you  ? 

"  How  could  that  love  attain  its  highest  height  ? 

Hurt  me  and  spare  not!  I  am  yours  for  joy 

And  yours  a  hundred-fold,  then,  for  despair; 

I  would  not  change  my  love  for  any  toy  —  " 

258 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Steps  came  down  the  front  room  and  the  friends 
greeted  each  other  jovially ;  the  book  fell  shut  by  its 
own  weight.  And  as  there  is  nothing  in  this  world 
which  can  be  hidden  altogether  nor  is  ever  quite  un- 
derstood, the  visitor  said  to  himself :  "  That  means 
Lisa  Rivington  !  "  —  adding,  "  She  is  n't  worth  it  — 
she  was  n't  even  at  first-hand." 


PART  IV 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  1 8th  of  April  dawned  at  Roadside  singularly  close 
and  still.  At  five  o'clock  and  some  seconds,  every 
sleeper  woke  to  feel  a  strong  shudder  seize  the  upper 
floors  as  if  a  heavy  wind  had  struck  the  house.  Doors 
closed  the  night  before  sprung  their  latches  and  swung 
wide.  Engracia  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  through  her 
own  open  door  into  the  passage  —  her  mother  stood 
there  listening.  They  waited  for  sounds  of  a  sudden 
spring  gale.  Nothing  more  occurred  :  it  was  merely  a 
sigh  that  reached  them  from  the  great  earth-agony 
down  at  the  Bay. 

Oakland  and  Berkeley  had  had  their  shock  and  were 
still  there,  though  most  of  their  chimneys  were  unusa- 
ble. They  looked  across  to  wonder  what  was  happen- 
ing behind  the  flame-laced  cloud  that  covered  San 
Francisco.  Hundreds  rushed  over  the  ferries  bringing 
the  first  news  which  spread  from  the  trans-bay  side, 
and  soon  continental  wires  were  clicking  and  every 
State  in  the  Union  and  every  city  and  home,  with  a 
human  interest  or  a  heart-stake  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
replied  in  a  storm  of  return  messages,  faster  than  the 
tragedy  developed  : — questions,  demands  for  "  copy," 
offers  of  help,  prayers  —  from  individuals  —  for  some 
answer  to  frantic  inquiries  for  sons,  daughters,  hus- 
bands in  the  danger  zone.  No  one  knew  just  what 
had  happened  (there  were  rumors  of  a  tidal  wave 

263 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

submerging  the  remains  of  the  city)  or  how  far  it 
had  spread.  But  from  San  Francisco,  the  center  a  few 
hours  ago  of  all  that  forest  of  converging  lines,  — 
whose  steep  streets  last  night  illumined  the  Bay  far 
out  to  the  warships  in  the  harbor ;  whose  ladies  were 
listening  to  Caruso  in  "Carmen";  whose  men  in 
clubs  and  hotel  lobbies  were  talking  to  all  the  world, 
—  not  a  word  !  A  modern  city  had  dropped  back  into 
the  Middle  Ages :  no  telephones,  no  traction,  no 
plumbing,  no  water-pipes,  no  banks,  no  public  mes- 
sengers, no  municipal  help,  and  to-morrow  no  food. 
Her  people  were  in  the  streets  with  their  clothes  on 
their  backs  and  their  possessions  in  their  hands  ;  and 
that  sound  began  which,  it  is  said,  still  haunts  the 
memory  of  those  who  heard  it,  — the  shuffle  of  human 
footsteps  along  streets  that  yesterday  roared  with 
traffic  on  wheels,  the  walking  and  talking,  for  days  and 
nights,  of  a  houseless  city  watching  the  burning  of 
its  homes. 

As  the  fires  advanced  block  after  block  was  emptied, 
great  buildings  fell  in  the  path  of  destruction,  blown 
up  by  dynamite ;  all  being  done  by  martial  law,  which 
worked  curious  hardship  in  some  cases.  A  man  in  a 
threatened  district  might  remove  his  family  and  come 
back  with  a  wagon,  for  which  he  had  paid  his  last  dol- 
lar in  cash,  to  save  his  stuff,  and  find  a  sentry  ready  to 
shoot  if  he  attempted  to  enter  his  own  door ;  he  left 
what  he  had,  and  his  household  swelled  the  proces- 
sion pushing  down  to  the  ferries  or  out  toward  the 
parks  and  the  windy  Presidio.  The  city  learned 
another  sound,  in  place  of  its  familiar  roar  of  traffic 

264 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

beginning  before  dawn  ;  this  sound  went  on  all  night 
—  the  scraping  of  trunks  towed  by  ropes,  of  tables 
turned  upside  down  and  used  as  trunks,  or  even 
bedsteads  on  castors  hand-hauled  along  the  miles 
of  littered  sidewalks.  There  were  stoppages  and 
loads  abandoned  by  pale  and  red-eyed  wanderers, 
who  sat  down  to  rest  on  gilded  sofas  dumped  on 
the  sidewalk ;  or  some  joker  farcically  struck  up  a 
tune  on  a  houseless  piano  covered  with  brick-lime. 
Some  say  there  was  silence  those  first  two  days  — 
others  remember  a  sort  of  Greek  chorus  all  along  the 
march ;  but  all  agree  there  was  no  chorus  of  lamenta- 
tion. An  awed  composure,  abnormal  nerve  support 
due  to  the  excitement  of  the  spectacle.  Life  for  a  num- 
ber of  ordinary  folk  had  suddenly  risen  to  a  great 
world  incident  of  which  they  were  a  part ;  they  were 
conscious  of  that  human  brotherhood  which  is  shared 
only  on  life's  highest  or  lowest  terms.  To-morrow  we 
shall  be  standing  in  the  bread-line  and  so  will  our 
wash-lady  and  Mr.  Dives,  who  yesterday  had  any- 
thing you  please  a  year  and  a  house  worth  half  a 
million  — 

But  the  world  is  not  so  lonely  as  it  was  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages :  there  were  cities  of  refuge  across  the  Bay, 
and  ferries  to  empty  the  ruins  of  their  fleeing  popu- 
lation, and  a  nation's  hands  to  feed  the  friendless  who 
had  nowhere  else  to  flee ;  —  and  back  of  the  nation 
soon  were  all  the  nations  of  the  world. 

Engraciahad  just  mentioned,  as  her  own  discovery, 
that  when  a  city  has  taken  possession  of  your  imagi- 
nation, you  see  it  in  the  likeness  of  a  woman  —  one 

265 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

of  its  beautiful  women  whom  you  have  known.  "  We 
know  the  dear  Ludwells  are  safe  in  London,  but  when 
I  think  of  San  Francisco,  I  see  Clare  —  smiling  just  as 
she  would  smile  if  something  impossible  like  this 
should  happen :  for  how  could  she  believe  it !  Of  course 
she  is  only  a  girl,  but  San  Francisco  is  a  girl-city." 

"  That 's  because  you  only  know  a  girl's  side  of  it. 
Did  you  ever  read  Bret  Harte's  *  San  Francisco'  ?" 

Engracia  never  had  and  was  confident  she  would 
not  like  it.  "  His  San  Francisco,  I  suppose,  would  be 
a  city  of  boy  pirates  1 "  Her  mother  smiled  —  they 
were  absolutely  demoralized  and  idle,  waiting  for 
whatever  news  should  come  next.  Engracia  clasped 
her  hands  behind  her  head,  then  hastily  detached 
one  hand  to  hide  a  yawn:  early  rising  and  subse- 
quent excitement  were  beginning  to  have  their  effect. 
"  What  will  it  do  to  them  as  a  family  ?  "  she  asked,  still 
harping  on  the  Ludwells,  their  representative  San 
Franciscans. 

"  If  California  Street  is  gone,  they  have  lost  their 
home.  They  can  build  a  handsomer  house,  but  that 
one  held  all  the  little  things  they  loved  —  " 

"  And  piles  of  things  they  '11  gladly  never  see  again 
— to  speak  the  truth  about  that  dear  house.  It  might 
almost  be  worth  a  moderate  fire  to  get  rid  of  some  of 
those  Friendship's  Offerings!" 

Caroline  did  not  answer :  what  she  saw  in  that 
house  was  one  room  silently  burning  alone  as  if  the 
whole  city  were  its  pyre.  The  room  where  she  kept 
her  first  vigil  with  grief,  where  she  left  her  youth  and 
the  last  of  her  dreams  of  personal  happiness: — she 

266 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

saw  the  mob  of  flames  peer  in,  climb  in,  lick  their  way 
across  the  carpets  to  the  still  white  bed  —  empty, 
quiet,  no  outcry,  no  resistance  —  the  house  gives  up 
its  ghost  with  not  one  of  all  who  loved  it  and  cherished 
its  memories  to  stand  by  and  watch  its  fall.  What  is 
one  house  ?  But  let  it  stand  for  the  city  that  could 
never  be  the  same  again  —  not  the  highest  culture 
nor  the  latest  word  in  art  nor  the  subtlest  intellectual 
atmosphere,  perhaps,  but  such  kind  hearts  and  such 
gay,  sweet  hospitality  and  pleasure,  like  a  city  of 
children,  of  young  girls.  It  was  typical,  too,  in  a 
way,  that  San  Francisco  on  her  last  night  should 
have  been  listening  to  " Carmen'' :  for  she  had  her 
blood  of  the  Latins  strong  in  her  maddest  hours.  But 
if  there  was  never  a  night  in  the  year  when  theater 
entrances  did  not  blaze  and  carriages  line  her  resi- 
dence blocks  and  lights  and  music  go  on  till  dawn, 
the  kitchen-doors  had  their  story  too.  Annie,  at 
Roadside,  broke  into  tears  when  she  heard  that  her 
first  "place"  in  the  city  was  gone.  "Sure,  if  that 
house  was  to  have  a  funeral,  you  Jd  see  the  long  string 
of  poor  bodies  would  be  walking  miles  to  pay  their 
respects  —  them'  that  had  their  hands  filled  and  their 
hearts  fed  from  its  doors,  and  nobody  the  wiser ! 
Their  right  hand  wouldn't  know  what  their  left'd 
be  after  doing,  and  they  not  a  care  in  the  world  I  And 
that 's  the  kind  that  mostly  does  forget." 

Mrs.  Scarth  had  been  repeating  these  words  and 
trying  to  copy  Annie's  rich  and  mournful  accent  when 
the  house-call  rang  through  the  office.  Engracia  flew 
to  the  telephone. 

267 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  —  From  New  York,  dated  eleven  to-day,  signed 
1  Gifford  Cornish,'  "  Central  recited. 

"  Then  it 's  for  my  brother." 

"'Mrs.  Henry  Scarth,'  it's  addressed  —  answer 
prepaid."  Engracia  laughed  to  herself  —  "  He  would 
n't  forget  that  if  the  whole  world  were  burning !  " 

"Are  you  all  safe  at  Roadside?"  was  the  message 
—  nothing  more :  he  had  not  asked,  "  Is  the  Tract 
still  there?"  Whom  else  had  he  thought  of  on  that 
coast  ?  Mrs.  Rivington  had  given  up  Overleap  months 
ago.  Strange  they  had  heard  nothing  1  An  engage- 
ment like  that  could  not  have  been  kept  out  of  the 
papers. 

Engracia's  smile  sank  into  her  heart,  and  the  words, 
"  Are  you  all  safe  at  Roadside,"  remained  a  scan- 
dalous comfort  all  that  day  and  next  day,  while  the 
great  disaster  spread.  Everything  below  Post  and 
Sutter  Streets  had  gone  ;  — they  went  and  Van  Ness 
Avenue  was  the  city's  last  stand,  with  ranks  of  fine 
houses  blown  up  as  a  barricade  —  many  of  them,  in 
the  zeal  of  ignorance,  sacrificed  for  nothing. 

On  the  second  day,  or  third,  —  every  hour  of 
crowded  rumor  seeming  half  a  day,  —  it  was  Tom's 
turn  to  be  sucked  into  the  calamity.  Out  of  that  back 
chapter  of  his  own  which  he  had  called  finished,  came 
a  cablegram  dated  Seoul :  "  Can't  hear  from  Mary 
last  address  Adler  San  Francisco  can  you  help?" 
signed  "S.  Gladwyn." 

His  women  fell  upon  him :  "  Why  did  you  never 
tell  us  Mary  Gladwyn  was  in  San  Francisco,  you 
weird  child?" 

268 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  myself,"  said  Tom.  The  state- 
ment sounded  odd,  yet  his  astonishment  was  conclu- 
sive. 

"Would  she  have  been  a  patient?  —  how  dread- 
ful!" said  his  mother. 

"  More  likely  a  nurse  ;  —  either  way,  it 's  not  a 
good  place  to  be :  I  must  go  down  to-night,  from 
Marysville.  The  stage  would  mean  another  day." 

" Can  you  get  into  the  city?" 

"  There  must  be  some  way.  If  I  find  her,  mother, 
what  about  her  coming  up  here  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Caroline  with  suspicious  haste. 
"  While  we  have  a  bed  to  spare  we  are  open  to  refu- 
gees." 

"  These  are  my  friends,"  said  Tom  dryly. 

"You  won't  forget,  Tom,  the  check  Uncle  Benja- 
min sent  us  for  cases  at  first-hand?  Suppose  Miss 
Gladwyn  should  not  care  to  come  up  here,  with  her 
family  so  far  away  ?  " 

"You  mean,  if  I  find  her,  it  might  go  toward 
helping  her  home  ?  I  don't  think  she  would  take  a 
cent  of  it,  in  the  first  place  —  " 

"And  perhaps  deporting  Mary  Gladwyn  might 
not  be  such  a  very  good  use  for  it,  after  all,"  Engracia 
added  slyly.  "  If  she  's  a  nurse,  I  should  think  she 
might  be  needed  right  where  she  is." 

Tom  looked  at  his  women-folk,  mute,  badgered, 
but  unresisting.  Engracia  flew  at  him  suddenly  with 
a  wild  hug,  the  assault  incidentally  hiding  that  he 
blushed.  All  day  at  intervals,  while  the  rummage 
went  on  for  old  clothes  or  spare  ones  to  send  to  the 

269 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

refugees,  she  continued  to  smile  to  herself ;  but  the 
mother's  heart  contracted  at  this  threatened  revival 
of  an  alien  past  which  held  so  much,  apparently,  that 
Tom  had  never  touched  upon  with  his  family. 

Tom  was  off,  with  a  hack,  for  Marysville  —  "  and 
Mary  "  !  Engracia  laughed  in  secret.  Often  she  had 
speculated  about  those  ladies  he  had  escorted  on  that 
great  war-time  journey  he  had  made  so  little  of.  She 
had  been  much  more  worried  than  it  was  good  for 
one's  mother  to  know  over  the  pretty-cousin  episode, 
and  she  hailed  the  advent  of  a  Mary  as  a  timely 
diversion  —  if,  indeed,  the  earthquake  had  not  been 
planned  on  purpose  to  bring  those  two  fateful  lives 
together. 

"  But  why  did  n't  she  let  him  know  she  was  there? 
—  busy,  I  guess  ;  and  perhaps  he  's  not  the  only  boy 
in  the  world  for  her." 

Tom  and  another  man,  in  search  of  his  wife,  miss- 
ing since  the  disaster,  hired  a  launch  to  take  them 
across  the  Bay  from  Oakland.  They  were  landed 
somewhere  up  near  the  Presidio,  in  the  midst  of  a 
transportation  depot,  an  improvised  repair  shop, 
and  a  collection  of  damaged  automobiles  comman- 
deered for  the  city's  use.  Automobiles  do  not  last 
long  when  driven  over  brick-piles. 

While  he  was  getting  his  bearings  in  the  confusion, 
Tom  looked  on  enviously  at  a  youth  dressed  like 
one  of  the  cognoscenti  in  sport  clothes,  covered  with 
grease  and  soot,  who  alternately  cranked  a  sick  car 
and  ran  back  to  observe  its  progressive  symptoms  — 

270 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

but  nothing  progressed.  Tom  made  some  recondite 
suggestion  as  to  electric  connections. 

"Here!"  said  the  perplexed  amateur.  "If  you 
know  all  that  you  'd  better  get  down  here  and  take 
ofl  your  coat.  Talent  like  that  is  just  what  we  are 
looking  for." 

Tom  took  his  turn  crouching  and  cranking,  but 
chiefly  studying  the  uncovered  thing  with  pain  for 
the  way  it  had  been  handled.  A  part  here  and  an- 
other there  he  touched  —  went  in  front  to  crank  once 
more  and  listened  watchfully :  it  hardly  seemed  that 
he  had  done  anything. 

"  I  think  she  '11  go,"  he  said.  The  other  stepped 
aboard  and  Tom  made  as  if  to  join  him.  "  Leave  me 
at  —  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  shall  leave  you  here.  There  's 
a  junk-pile  of  these  impenitents  and  the  city  needs 
>eirL  —  Sorry  I  can't  have  the  pleasure  of  your  com- 
pany." 

Tom  made  his  bluff  for  freedom :  he  stated  that 
important  business  had  brought  him  into  the  trouble 
zone  and  not  idle  curiosity  nor  a  desire  to  set  up  a 
city  repair  shop.  But  his  captor  called  out  in  lively 
language  to  another  youth  of  expensive  past,  equally 
covered  with  machine  grease,  — 

"  Here  's  a  gink  who  knows  more  about  machines 
than  all  of  us.  Annex  him  for  the  squad." 

Tom  temporized  :  "  If  I  can  get  two  of  your  inva- 
lids out  of  the  yard  by  noon,  will  you  let  me  have 
one  for  a  few  hours  —  case  of  necessity?" 

"  No  man's  necessity  holds  over  these  machines," 
271 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

he  was  informed.  "  Their  owners  would  like  to  use 
them  if  they  could.  This  one  we  've  been  working 
over  was  new  from  the  East  —  it  belongs  to  Dalby 
Morton  :  he  needed  her  bad  enough  when  they  carted 
him  out  of  the  Adler,  after  his  operation  last  week." 

"  The  Adler  interests  me,"  said  Tom.  "I  'm  trying 
to  locate  a  young  lady  for  her  family  abroad,  whose 
last  address  was  the  Adler." 

"  Patient  or  nurse  ?  " 

"  Nurse,  I  think." 

"  I  guess  they  all  stuck  by  their  cases.  Have  you 
tried  Mrs.  Adler  ?  " 

"  I  can't  get  her." 

"  Symington  —  any  of  those  big  men  would  have 
a  string  of  nurses  on  file.  Symington  took  out  Mor- 
ton's appendix  two  or  three  days  before  the  fire." 

"She  may  not  be  a  surgical  nurse:  I'm  not  even 
sure  she  has  graduated  —  only  I  know  that  she  is  a 
stranger  in  the  city." 

"  —  Might  try  Langley:  he  assisted  Symington, 
and  he  'd  get  you  Mrs.  Adler's  address." 

It  was  agreed,  Tom's  case  being  in  the  nature  of 
general  relief  work,  that  he  should  have  the  use  of 
a  wheezy  little  roadster  till  night  —  dark  was  not  a 
word  one  could  use  in  burning  San  Francisco.  "  But 
you'll  turn  her  in  to-morrow  early  and  report  for 
work?  Dunton"  (chief  of  the  motor-brigade  com- 
posed of  some  of  the  fanciest  youths  in  the  city)  "  will 
require  you  at  our  hands." 

Tom,  in  pursuit  of  Dr.  Langley's  supposed  address, 
drove  slowly  up  the  long  hills  toward  Presidio  Ave- 

272 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

nue ;  he  passed  a  great  gray  house  commanding  from 
its  blank  windows  —  it  was  a  corner  house  —  a  vast 
and  awful  view  of  the  city's  destruction.  The  stately 
front  porch  was  gone ;  the  front  steps  were  a  stone- 
heap  leading  to  the  dust-whitened  panels  of  the  closed 
front  door.  But  from  the  rear,  where  tradesmen  had 
carried  in  their  bundles  and  baskets  with  turkeys'  legs 
and  celery  tops  sticking  out,  blissful  odors  of  hospi- 
tality greeted  him  —  ghost-like  one  might  fancy,  in 
that  dinnerless,  kitchenless  town!  He  was  not  de- 
ceived, though,  —  steak  was  broiling,  coffee,  just  com- 
ing to  the  boil,  spread  its  invitation  on  the  hungry  air 
of  night ;  but  the  back  of  a  fat  old  Chinaman  was  the 
only  sign  of  a  host  on  the  premises.  With  a  black 
felt  hat  crowded  down  over  his  large  spectacles,  a 
wadded  tunic  and  kitchen  apron,  one  above  the  other, 
baggy  black  trousers  turned  up  at  the  heels  of  a  pair 
of  thick-soled  Chinese  slippers,  he  squatted  in  front 
of  a  small  oil-stove  backed  by  strips  of  galvanized- 
iron  roofing.  A  pile  of  boxes  screened  his  outdoor 
kitchen  from  eddies  of  wind  and  dust. 

Tom  sprang  up  the  walk  to  beg  supper,  as  the  emer- 
gency custom  was.  Seated  on  a  box  inside  the  wind- 
break, he  saw  a  girl  with  a  veil  tied  over  her  head, 
her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  — he 
looked  again,  and  please  God,  it  was  Mary !  At  his 
step  she  turned  —  a  gust  of  wind  drove  smoke,  which 
was  the  city's  atmosphere,  into  their  faces ;  they 
groped  for  each  other's  hands,  laughing — Tom,  glad 
as  a  boy  that  his  search  was  over.  His  eyes  may  have 
been  the  least  bit  moist  —  with  smoke  or  happiness. 

273 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Where  the  gracious  sake  did  you  come  from?" 
—  she  gave  him  her  broad,  splendid  smile,  a  little 
broader  and  more  wan  for  a  certain  look  of  strain 
under  the  fire-flush  fixed  upon  her  cheek.  Her  lashes 
were  gold  by  nature  —  now  they  were  black  with 
soot,  which  changed  her  expression  theatrically.  But 
when  she  continued  to  smile,  and  looked  at  him 
straight  in  her  old  way,  humorous  and  trustful,  she 
seemed  just  herself,  and  all  that  any  man  could  ask 
in  a  town  like  that  at  nightfall,  with  a  corner  out  of 
the  wind,  —  supper  and  warmth  and  welcome  taken 
for  granted. 

The  impassive  old  cook  neither  saw  nor  heard : 
the  stranger's  arrival  meant  simply  more  steak  and 
more  coffee.  "  You  please  get  up."  Tom  rose  ;  in  the 
box  he  had  sat  on  were  loaves  of  fresh  bread  —  the 
lid  was  restored,  and  Tom  took  another  box  closer  to 
Mary. 

"Now,  where  did  you  come  from?  Are  you  a 
refugee  ?" 

"I  came  to  find  a  refugee  —  I  have  found  her."  — 
Explanations  followed. 

"  My  poor  family !  —  and  I  spent  my  last  cent  to 
cable  them.  Well,  somebody  has  got  the  cent.'* 

"The  Western  Union,"  said  Tom  bitterly,  "has 
passed  away  as  to  messages,  but  it  still  feebly  takes 
in  the  cents." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  quite  fair  about  that,  and 
that^s  not  what  I  meant." 

"Oh,  I  know  it:  it  makes  no  difference."  They 
twaddled  about  nothings,  watching  each  other's  faces 

274 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

timidly,  on  the  road  to  fresh  acquaintance —  till  Tom, 
casually  looking  up,  asked,  "  Whose  house  is  this,  I 
wonder  ?" 

The  old  Chinaman  was  prepared  to  answer:  "Mist* 
Mort'n  house.  Mist'  Dalb'  Mort'  upstairs.  I  go  take 
up  supper  —  "  This  was  Mr.  Morton's  chef,  nineteen 
years  in  the  family,  where  he  had  seen  and  heard  and 
said  nothing ;  he  had  helped  the  young  master  up- 
stairs on  his  gay  nights  —  where  he  lay  now,  alone 
in  the  dismantled  chamber,  everything  packed  for 
the  event  of  flight.  This  was  the  accepted  arrange- 
ment —  that  Wing  should  take  up  the  supper  tray 
and  entertain  the  young  boss  with  news  of  the  city 
which  he  had  gathered  on  his  daily  tramps  for  water. 
Thus  Dalby  knew  that  his  friends  were  having  the 
time  of  their  young  lives  commandeering  other  peo- 
ple's machines  and  delivering  stuff  all  over  the  city : 
heroes  they  were,  while  he  lay  on  his  back  and  gos- 
siped with  women  and  cooks.  He  heard  that  the  Lud- 
well  house  was  gone  and  the  Ludwells  were  expected 
back  at  once ;  and  wondered  in  sick  dreams  what  the 
plan  would  be  for  Clare,  and  if  the  cousins  at  Road- 
side would  shelter  her.  To-night,  he  was  told,  a  young 
stranger  had  blown  in  whom  the  girl  from  Hongkong 
had  welcomed  like  a  brother.  But  these  things,  ac- 
cording to  Wing,  were  as  life  sends. 

Downstairs  they  had  grown  more  personal  — 
"They  remember  you  at  the  Adler,"  said  Mary  — 
"  How  you  came  too  late  —  I  was  so  sorry  to  hear  that." 

"  It  was  not  too  late  for  mother:  I  owe  that  to  you, 
Mary,  —  that  I  was  not  playing  around  India  when 

275 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

she  walked  into  the  house  at  Roadside  alone.  My 
sister  could  not  get  there." 

"  —  Not  to  me  !  Your  mind  was  set  on  home  be- 
fore you  spoke  to  me." 

"  My  mind  was  on  other  things,  too." 
"  Well,  here  we  are  —  in  your  San  Francisco  that 
you  said  you  would  convert  me  to,  some  day.   We 
did  n't  think  it  would  take  an  earthquake  to  do  it. 

—  And  where  are  your  nice  cousins?" 

"In  London,"  said  Tom.  He  blushed  slightly, 
having  feared  that  he  might. 

Mary's  smile  became  rather  set.  —  "  So  is  Mr.  Mor- 
ton's father  and  his  fiancee.  Everybody  who  's  Who 
in  San  Francisco  seems  to  be  somewhere  else :  is 
that  why  it's  called  cosmopolitan?" 

"  But  you  have  n't  told  me  a  word  about  yourself 

—  not  even  why  you  never  let  us  know  you  were 
here.  That  was  not  friendly,  Mary." 

Calling  her  by  her  name,  with  a  certain  hesita- 
tion, was  the  only  change  in  his  manner  to  her,  but 
in  his  whole  aspect  and  address  there  was  a  firmer 
note :  "  He  seems  to  have  arrived,"  thought  Mary, 
bracing  herself  with  a  sigh. 

She  gave  him  a  sketchy  account  of  her  arrival  in 
her  native  land,  in  charge  of  an  invalid  American 
lady  whom  she  had  nursed  in  the  hospital  in  Hong- 
kong. Her  patient  had  had  a  relapse  for  which  she 
did  not  hold  Mary's  care  on  the  voyage  responsible 

—  in  fact  she  had  kept  her  "  on  the  case,"  and  they 
had  both  gone  to  the  Adler  together.  By  the  time  the 
lady  was  discharged  and  able  to  go  East  alone,  Mary 

276 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

had  won  friends  at  the  Adler  and  favorable  notice 
from  the  doctors.  Mr.  Morton's  night-nurse  had  been 
drafted  off  suddenly  on  another  case  and,  by  a  stroke 
of  fate,  Mary  was  on  duty  after  her  first  night's  watch 
on  the  morning  of  the  earthquake.  "So,  here  we 
are,"  she  concluded.  "Dr.  Langley  said  he  would 
look  after  us  — if  he  knows  where  to  find  us ;  I  don't 
know  where  to  find  him  ;  but  everything  seems  to  be 
all  right,  if  the  fire  does  n't  reach  us." 

"  I  am  here  to  look  after  you  now,"  said  Tom  con- 
tentedly. "  Speaking  of  last  cents,  won't  you  let  me 
be  your  banker,  Mary  ?  I  am  bursting  with  money 
sent  us  from  the  East  to  spend  on  worthy  cases 
if  we  meet  any.  Won't  you  be  my  first  'worthy 
case'?" 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  We  have  a  house  stuffed 
full  of  luxuries  and  Wing  to  stand  in  line  for  neces- 
saries, and  now  a  friend  to  watch  the  fires  don't  cut 
us  off.  There  are  lots  of  things  you  can  capture  and 
drag  in  for  us.  —  I  need  surgeons'  gauze  more  than 
I  need  money." 

To  those  who  have  few  words,  the  time  for  deeds 
comes  with  peculiar  satisfaction.  Tom  had  often  felt, 
with  his  mother  and  Engracia,  the  loneliness  of  one 
who  cannot  talk :  he  was  happy  now,  as  in  the  days 
at  Wiju,  when  two  bright  and  confiding  country- 
women, out  of  the  nowhere  of  that  strange  land,  had 
sought  his  roof  and  shield.  He  opened  his  own  plans 
with  great  cheer.  How  soon  would  Mary's  patient 
be  able  to  make  another  move  ?  They  wanted  her  at 
Roadside,  and  they  could  not  have  her  —  he  saw 

277 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

that  —  without  her  patient.  He  sympathized  with 
Morton's  hard  luck,  but  he  did  not  exactly  yearn  for 
him  as  a  house-guest. 

"  If  I  were  Mr.  Morton,"  said  Mary,  "  I  would  n't 
give  much  for  my  share  of  your  invitation  as  an  in- 
vitation." 

"  That 's  nothing  to  him,  one  way  or  another.  — 
But  you  are  coming  to  us  ! " 

"  My  plan  is  to  go  home,"  said  Mary  dryly.  "Plenty 
of  volunteers  are  pouring  in  —  regular  tip-top  nurses 
who  don't  take  a  cent  for  what  they  do.  I  came  for 
wool,  and  it 's  proper  I  should  go  home  shorn." 

"  You  look  to  me  awfully  tired.  —  Come  and  rest, 
Mary !  I  want  you  to  know  them,  and  I  want  them 
to  know  you." 

"  It 's  very  good  of  you  all,"  —  Mary  guessed  at 
the  probable  share  his  family  had  had  in  this  invita- 
tion, —  "  but  there  is  nothing  to  say  now.  I  shall  see 
you  again  sometime —  if  the  fire  reaches  us?" 

"  You  will  see  me  every  night :  I  '11  come  and  drag 
in  things." 

"  —  Time  's  up  for  me :  I  don't  think  you  need  any 
one  to  feed  you — 'Eat  hearty,  mate.'  " 

"But  you  must  come  back!  —  there  are  lots  of 
things  you  have  n't  explained  yet." 

"  By  the  way  —  where  shall  I  send  if  I  should  need 
you?" 

"  The  Presidio." 

"  Did  you  walk  ?  " 

"  I  came  in  a  ramshackle  little  Ford  the  city  loaned 


278 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  You  and  the  city  seem  to  be  on  great  terms ! " 
she  laughed. 

"  Temporarily :  I  am  annexed,  they  tell  me,  to  the 
transportation  squad  —  my  department  is  the  scrap- 
heap." 

"  I  see,"  said  Mary  —  she  glanced  smiling  at  his 
hands. 

He  showed  his  handkerchief  —  "  It  has  had  to  do 
duty  all  day  for  cotton- waste ! " 

"  We  have  oceans  of  towels,  but  I  shall  not  offer 
you  any  of  Wing's  water  —  he  tramps  miles  for  it  in 
pails." 

Tom  lingered :  "  Why  did  n't  you  let  us  know  ?  It 
was  not  kind." 

"  I  was  busy ;  but  that  does  n't  matter :  nurses 
don't  visit." 

"  Don't  they  write  letters?  I  wrote  to  you  —  about 
father,  and  you  made  your  mother  answer.  One  takes 
a  hint  like  that." 

She  looked  at  him  subtly  :  something  in  that  letter 
she  had  missed  —  was  he  accounting  to  himself  for 
it,  or  to  her  ?  "  It  was  a  family  letter,"  she  parried 
serenely.  "  Mother  was  the  one  to  answer  it." 

"  It  was  to  you." 

"  Well,  it  does  n't  matter  now." 

"  Not  if  you  understand  —  now  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  fires  abated,  or  they  seemed  to,  by  day ;  at  night, 
watching  from  their  hill,  they  saw  fresh  fires  advance 
or  old  ones  flare  up  formidably  and  storm  the  blank, 
black  night.  A  dry,  wind-driven  pall  shut  out  the 
stars,  the  friendly  lights  across  the  Bay,  the  mountains 
where  Tamalpais  and  his  brethren  held  aloof  guard- 
ing a  useless  waste  of  ocean.  The  city  panted  on  its 
hills  of  hot  ashes  —  a  thousand  homes,  stored  with 
the  blessings  of  rich  years,  gave  up  their  all  in  one 
vast,  smoking  urn  of  sacrifice. 

Mary  and  Tom  sat  on  their  packing-boxes,  in  the 
lee  of  the  big  house  in  its  staring  emptiness,  Mary  in 
a  coat  whose  folds,  even  after  a  sea-voyage,  kept  the 
subtle  odor  inseparable  from  the  East.  Over  her  head, 
tied  under  her  chin,  she  wore  the  "calamity  veil" 
which  had  brought  San  Francisco's  dames  to  a  com- 
mon level  from  the  pride  of  French  millinery  to  the 
humblest  head-covering  under  the  sun.  Whether 
bent  over  cooking-pots  and  cradles  and  camp-fires 
of  the  West,  or  brightening  the  fields  of  Europe's 
corn,  the  woman's  kerchief  has  been  the  badge  of 
her  ancient  lot  of  service,  bond  or  free ;  and  whenever 
she  returns  to  it,  the  effect  is  somehow  appealing,  as 
if  we  saw  her  in  her  immemorial  tasks  since  the  foun- 
dation of  the  race. 

Often  they  were  too  tired  to  talk  —  always  they 
280 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

were  wary  of  the  past.  Each  must  have  felt  this  to  be 
the  one  chance  of  a  new  beginning,  with  a  fear  to  have 
it  hurt  —  and  for  each  the  day's  work  was  sufficient 
for  the  day.  There  were  campers  of  the  city's  poor 
in  a  little  park  not  many  blocks  distant,  and  at  night 
young  people  singing.  No  one  hesitated  to  be  senti- 
mental, or  even  religious ;  it  was  the  tune  of  "  Frank- 
scot"  they  listened  to  one  night,  and  the  familiar 
words  came  in  snatches  on  the  wind :  — 

"I  need  thee,  blessed  Jesus." 

Suddenly,  Mary  broke  down  and  gave  one  hard 
sob,  and  Tom  had  nearly  spoiled  all  and  kissed  her. 
But  she  did  not  know  it  or  dream  it  —  who  would  with 
Tom  1  She  recovered  herself  and  they  sat  awhile 
longer  staring  with  strained,  sleep-laden  eyes  at  the 
spectacle  they  were  so  horribly  weary  of,  yet  could 
not  cease  to  watch. 

When  Dr.  Langley  said  his  patient  could  be  moved 
and  that  the  country  was  the  best  place  for  him,  Tom 
was  pleased,  although  somewhat  surprised,  at  Dalby's 
ready  acquiescence.  Dalby  had  abundant  time  for 
speculating  upon  various  consequences  of  the  disaster 
that  were  most  likely  to  affect  himself.  He  counted 
upon  the  postponement  of  his  marriage  as  one  of 
them.  Mr.  Morton  and  Roberta  had  not  heard  of  his 
operation :  on  his  father's  account  the  news  had  been 
delayed  till  the  assurance  could  be  added  that  his  son 
was  out  of  danger ;  and  on  the  third  day  came  the 
Disaster.  San  Francisco's  capital  operation  covered 
the  rest  —  so  these  two  he  had  not  heard  from,  but 

281 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

time  pressed.  The  latest  plan  had  been  for  them  to 
cross  together  late  in  May  for  the  June  wedding. 
Presents  he  knew  had  been  arriving  at  Overleap ;  his 
soul  stifled  for  a  respite.  From  actual  heroism  on  the 
day  of  the  fire,  he  had  relapsed,  through  confinement 
and  reaction  from  nerve-strain,  into  a  very  primitive 
state  of  selfishness,  and  his  thoughts  hovered  insanely 
upon  the  vision  of  Clare  Ludwell  at  Roadside,  where 
she  had  stayed  once  before  when  he  fancied  himself 
rather  jealous  of  that  good-looking  Cousin  Tom. 

The  journey  accomplished  itself  wonderfully  —  by 
boat  to  Vallejo  Junction  and  up  the  valley  by  train, 
every  official  at  their  service ;  from  Sacramento  an 
automobile  to  save  change  of  cars  for  Marysville. 
Their  amusingly  small  luggage  was  carried  into  the 
low,  dark  rooms  at  Roadside  in  their  deep  summer 
shade,  and  the  guest-room  with  two  closets  received 
that  "  '  distinguished  club-man,'  Mr.  Dalby  Morton," 
as  Engracia  put  it  to  her  appreciative  mamma. 

The  two  girls  made  friends  without  any  delay,  while 
one  showed  the  other  where  "  things  are  kept." 

"  Servants  hate  to  be  bothered :  you  will  let  me 
wait  on  myself  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"  Proud  to  have  you !  but  you  've  nothing  to  do  with 
brooms  and  dustpans." 

"  I  'm  his  nurse  —  I  expect  to  take  care  of  his  room." 

"  You  '11  not  sweep  rooms  in  this  house,  if  I  can  help 
it !  Don't  you  suppose  we  know  all  about  you,  Mary 
Gladwyn  ?  " 

Mary  chilled  imperceptibly :  Engracia  wondered  if 
she  could  have  caught  the  meaning  of  her  mother's 

282 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

care-worn  cordiality  and  the  shy  and  fearful  look  she 
cast  at  Mary's  large,  brave  smile  and  somewhat  dis- 
ordered mass  of  copper-gold  hair  which  blazed  up  the 
walk  in  the  afternoon  sunlight.  Tom  went  about  the 
house,  silent,  looking  happy,  ordered  about  by  Mary 
quite  as  if  he  were  used  to  it.  "  This  is  something 
like !"  Engracia  remarked  to  herself,  seeing  it  all  and 
very  much  pleased  with  Mary.  (We  don't  know  what 
she  had  expected  and  it  never  was  known.)  —  "  It 's  a 
poor  earthquake  that  can't  shake  up  something  good 
for  somebody  1 " 

"  Did  you  know,  Tom,  that  Clare  is  coming  to  us 
in  about  a  week?"  said  Mrs.  Scarth  when  there  was 
quiet  in  the  house. 

"  I  thought  it  quite  possible,"  said  Tom. 

"Well?"  said  his  mother  suggestively. 

"  He  may  be  gone  by  that  time.  I  don't  see  how  I 
could  have  got  out  of  asking  him." 

"  No  ;  certainly  not ;  but  had  we  better  let  Cousin 
Anna  know?" 

"  They  will  know  probably  before  they  get  here : 
they  '11  hear  from  friends  in  New  York." 

"  No,  not  now  :  everybody 's  lost.  I  think  I  ought 
to  tell  Cousin  Anna  he  is  here." 

"  You  can't  do  it  except  with  a  telegram  to  meet 
them  on  the  train.  Why  fuss  about  it?  They  will  have 
to  see  each  other  more  or  less  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives." 

"But  staying  in  the  same  house  —  and  so  close  to 
his  marriage?" 

"  We  are  not  supposed  to  know  about  his  marriage ; 
283 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

we  can't  help  it,  and  he  can't ;  it  Js  the  way  it  happens 
in  earthquakes." 

Engracia  had  her  word  also  with  her  mother,  when 
their  turn  came  for  comments  on  the  situation. 

"  I  think  we  are  going  to  have  a  *  remarkably  hectic' 
time  of  it  here  for  the  next  few  weeks :  —  we  must  be 
as  quiet  as  mice." 

"  I  understand,  child,"  said  Caroline,  fully  aware  to 
whom  the  insinuation  pointed. 

"  You  will  remember  Tom  is  out  of  it  absolutely, 
as  far  as  Clare  is  concerned  ?  He  does  n't  even  feel 
anything  in  that  quarter;  —  and  don't  you  see  what 
a  nice  refugee  he  has  brought  us?" 

"Why — Miss  Gladwyn  is  a  nice  girl,  but  —  " 

"  No  '  buts '  at  all :  she  's  a  frightfully  nice  girl.  She 
can  have  me ! " 

"  I  hope  Tom  is  not  as  precipitate  as  you  are." 

"  All  I  ask  is  —  please  put  Clare  out  of  your  blessed 
mind.  It  is  dangerous  even  to  think  a  thing  one 
must  n't  speak  of.  Mothers  do  have  an  awful  time  of 
it  with  their  children's  goings-on ;  —  *  to  stand  and  be 
still '  —  "  Engracia  rose  and  threw  her  arms  around 
her  mother.  "  What  else  have  you  got  on  your  poor 
mind  ?  I  can  read  you  !  What  are  you  keeping  back?" 

"Something  that  may  make  the  situation  more 
'hectic'  for  you,  my  dear;  but  as  you  say,  I  '11  'be 
still.' " 

"Don't  you  be  still  with  me!  That's  different 
again." 

Caroline  smiled  while  she  hunted  up  the  last 
"Chronicle,"  and,  folding  it  at  a  certain  item,  offered 

284 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

it  to  her  daughter:  her  heart  sank  as  she  watched 
the  effect.  The  Chamber  of  Commerce,  or  some  other 
body  in  New  York  of  equal  strength  financially,  had 
subscribed  a  huge  sum  for  San  Francisco,  but  were 
not  proposing  to  throw  it  into  the  Bay,  which  would 
have  been  much  the  same  as  handing  it  over  to  the 
supervisors.  They  were  sending  out  Mr.  Gifford 
Cornish  to  fix  upon  a  proper  plan  for  its  administra- 
tion—  it  ran  above  half  a  million ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Scarth 
observed,  "  it  will  be  quite  a  chore  for  him.  But  I 
don't  believe  he  will  go  back  without  paying  us  a 
visit." 

"  Mother,  if  you  ask  him  up  here,  I  will  never  for- 
give you  1 " 

Caroline  replied,  unmoved,  "  I  should  not  dream 
of  asking  him,  but  if  he  should  ask  to  come  or  comes 
without  asking — he  will  find  me,  at  least,  precisely 
the  same." 

"As  what?" 

"  As  before  that  wretched  episode  which  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  us  or  with  him.  How  is  he  responsible 
for  a  silly  woman  ?  She  deceived  herself,  and  her  folly 
has  been  its  own  punishment.  I  think  he  came  off 
with  flying  colors." 

"Yes;  if  you  like  those  colors,"  said  Engracia. 

Looking  for  the  paper  afterwards,  to  show  the  same 
item  to  Tom,  his  mother  discovered  only  half  of  it  — 
the  significant  sheet  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

A  MARKED  change  took  place  about  this  time  in  the 
disposition  of  Mary's  patient.  As  a  convalescent  she 
had  not  found  him  easy  to  manage.  He  obeyed  her 
now  implicitly;  he  hoarded  his  strength,  avoided 
strain  and  ate  as  if  training  for  a  sporting  event. 
With  Tom  he  discussed  the  merits  of  the  high-power 
car  which  had  brought  them  up  from  Sacramento 
and  was  said  to  be  for  sale  at  a  bargain.  Tom  de- 
murred at  the  bargain.  But  why  did  Morton  want 
a  car  before  he  was  fit  to  drive  one?  He  took  it  as  a 
symptom  of  the  sick  man's  restlessness  and  boredom. 
Meanwhile  the  Ludwells  were  crossing  the  conti- 
nent to  take  the  share  awaiting  them  in  the  present 
developments.  Silent  beside  his  wife  in  their  drawing- 
room,  or  talking  with  men  in  the  smoker,  Thomas 
Ludwell  pondered  the  financial  situation  on  the  West 
Coast  since  the  fire  had  swept  so  many  pieces  from 
the  board.  His  sympathies  were  active  —  equally  was 
his  mind  of  an  inveterate  combiner,  and  never  had 
he  felt  so  profoundly,  awesomely  inspired.  He  worked 
with  gods,  not  men.  Here  was  San  Francisco  crushed 
by  a  blow  no  man  could  foresee,  and,  lo,  a  harvest  of 
opportunity  —  for  a  few  commanders  of  free  capital 
with  faith  in  the  city's  resurgence.  He  had  faith  and 
capital  and  the  nerve  to  stake  much,  if  not  all,  with  the 
courage  to  lose  if  his  prophecies  should  fail.  Nor  did 

286 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

sentiment  interfere  with  the  prospect  of  gains  built 
on  the  public  misfortune.  Sentiment  was  the  music  he 
marched  to,  but  opportunism  was  his  sword  and  armor. 
His  charity  and  his  good  nature  were  boundless:  he 
paid  out  of  hand  without  stint,  he  worked  on  com- 
mittees (and  incidentally  had  many  valuable  moments 
in  private  with  Gifford  Cornish),  he  shook  everybody 
by  the  hand  in  a  glow  of  thankfulness  at  his  own  in- 
considerable share  in  the  general  prostration,  and, 
hearing  incidentally  of  Tom's  enforced  labors  on  the 
scrap-heap,  sent  him  up  a  little  roadster  to  play  with, 
and  mentioned  that  he  might  be  a  passenger  in  it 
himself  before  the  summer  was  over.  There  may  have 
been  some  other  hints  as  to  the  future  of  the  Tract, 
but  these  Tom  was  expected  to  keep  to  himself.  While 
we  need  not  attempt  to  lay  out  plans  the  financier  had 
not  himself  studied  in  detail,  it  is  safe  to  suppose  that 
he  was  ready  to  raise  his  bid  for  the  Rivington  stock, 
seeing  the  Torres  Tract  now  as  a  pawn  well  on  its 
way  to  the  king-row. 

Tom  kept  his  forecastings  to  himself  necessarily, 
only  still  more  unyieldingly  did  he  combat  Engracia's 
efforts  toward  a  second  venture  into  the  market  — 
this  time  the  Eastern  market  —  for  young  and  inex- 
perienced secretaries.  "  Wait  till  the  summer  is  over ; 
then  we  '11  know  more  than  we  do  now,"  was  his  cry. 
Engracia  called  it  the  Valley  of  Indecision. 

Tom  took  the  girls  out  one  by  one  in  his  little  two- 
passenger  car,  but  his  invitations  to  Mary  never 
seemed  to  fit  her  hours  off  duty — though  what  duties 
could  so  seriously  absorb  her  now,  he  failed  to  under- 

287 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

stand.  Dalby  could  not  motor,  yet  he  did  not  require 
watching  like  a  child.  Mary  —  without  watching  — 
had  observed  that  he  was  uneasy  whenever  from  his 
sick-room  window  he  saw  Tom  spin  down  the  road 
with  Clare  at  his  side. 

Clare's  coming  had  rilled  the  house  —  she  had  been 
there  a  week —  with  singing  and  laughter  and  visions 
of  distracting  new  clothes.  What  a  sensation  she 
would  have  made  amid  the  brick-piles  of  her  native 
city  !  San  Francisco's  proud  dames  had  shortened 
their  skirts  and  wore  stout  boots,  and  chiefly  the 
primitive  head-gear  named  for  the  occasion.  This  is 
not  to  deny  that  the  whole  house  rejoiced  in  her  as 
a  sight  and  still  more  as  a  sound.  She  came  home 
with  a  voice  half  an  octave  greater  in  range,  rich  with 
health  and  buoyant  with  excess  of  temperament.  Its 
fresh  tones  woke  the  darkened  rooms  in  their  hot  still- 
ness in  gushes  of  delicious  sound;  the  maid  went 
softly  about  her  work  to  listen,  and  the  stout  refugee 
cook  paused  in  her  egg-beating,  for  she  too  had  tem- 
perament, and  a  waist  like  a  flour-sack. 

Upstairs,  Dalby's  nurse  observed  that  with  the  first 
waking  of  that  voice  the  convalescent  would  lie  back 
and  close  his  eyes  and  a  light  moisture  would  break 
out  on  his  white  face.  Nurses  may  see  —  they  do  not 
speak.  Dalby  took  no  more  heed  of  Miss  Gladwyn 
as  a  witness  to  his  moods  than  of  the  duster  she 
used  faithfully  to  save  work  for  others. 

It  was  the  hottest  day  of  an  exhausting  week. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  parlor  but  Clare,  at  the  piano, 
and  Dalby  stretched  in  his  long  chair  near  the  door 

288 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

into  the  garden.  Outside,  listening  to  the  singing, 
Mrs.  Scarth  sat  with  her  sewing,  placidly  unconscious 
of  being  in  the  way.  Such,  at  least,  was  Dalby's  opin- 
ion :  it  was  the  first  moment  he  had  had  with  Clare 
alone  since  the  excitement  of  her  arrival  had  gone  like 
wine  through  his  veins.  She  had  been  trying  over 
songs  of  the  new  composers,  the  "  tone-poets"  —  dar- 
ing, suggestive,  but  not  restful  to  the  untrained  ear. 

"  Now  something  old,  please ;  something  you  have 
outgrown,"  Cousin  Caroline  pleaded. 

"All  my  old  music  is  burned  up,  cousin. — How 
will  this  do?"  Clare  could  not  see  that  "  cousin"  had 
been  called  away.  Dalby  was  her  only  audience ;  he 
leaned  from  his  chair  and  softly  closed  the  door ;  a 
breeze  might  have  done  it.  Notes  of  the  prelude  rip- 
pled forth,  hushed,  rapid,  checked  —  as  a  runner 
breathes  while  listening.  He  knew  the  words  that 
followed  —  spring  and  early  dawn  in  the  forest,  and 
a- recitative  which  brings  in  the  first  note  of  a  waking 
bird  —  then  the  girl-soprano,  in  an  impassioned  cre- 
scendo ;  he  lay  back  and  breathed  heavily. 

"Now  in  the  morning  of  life  I  stand, 
And  I  long  for  the  touch  of  your  hand:  — 
I  am  here,  I  am  here  at  your  door, 
Oh,  love  —  oh,  love  we  will  wait  no  more." 

Everything  —  even  the  house  was  gone  !  The  room 
was  dust  and  ashes  where  she  sang  it  last,  with  him 
beside  her  on  the  music-bench  —  the  blissful  old  room 
in  the  afternoon  light,  that  last  day  before  they  quar- 
reled ;  and  she  dared  to  sing  it  now.  It  was  an  invita- 
tion or  it  was  cold-blooded  mockery. 

289 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  For  God's  sake !  could  n't  you  wait  till  I  am  out 
of  the  house?" 

He  had  closed  his  eyes.  After  a  silence  she  said, 
"  When  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Come  —  come  here,  please  ! " 

Clare  came  and  took  the  hassock  at  his  feet.  They 
looked  in  each  other's  eyes  long  without  speaking. 

"Why  did  you  sing  that  song?  —  or  don't  you 
care?" 

"  You  ought  to  be  proof  against  my  songs  by  this 
time." 

"You  know  I  am  tortured  with  the  sight  of  you. 
—  I  can't  go  on  with  this  marriage ;  it 's  hell ! " 

"  Do  you  intend  to  behave  like  a  scoundrel?"  she 
whispered. 

"Do  I  intend  to  marry  her  and  say  nothing?  — 
that  kind  of  a  scoundrel  nothing  shall  make  me." 

"Why  do  you  say  that  to  me? —  if  it 's  true." 

"  The  right  one  to  say  it  to  is  not  here ;  when  she 
comes  it  will  be  too  late.  If  she  wanted  to  keep  in 
touch  with  me,  she  should  not  have  gone  to  Egypt 
after  my  mother  died." 

"You  did  not  ask  her  not  to,  did  you?" 

"  Of  course  not  1  — if  people  care,  they  understand." 

"Why  did  you  go  in  for  it  in  the  first  place?" 

"  That  is  a  question  for  you  to  ask !  We  were  great 
friends  —  we've  never  been  anything  else.  She  was 
straight  with  me  like  a  man  and  I  was  straight  with 
her  —  about  you." 

"  Do  you  call  this  straight  ?  —  Keep  your  word  like 
a  gentleman." 

290 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"How  did  you  keep  yours?"  Dalby  leaned  and 
took  her  hands. 

"  I  kept  it  —  to  you  !  —  not  to  that  —  whatever  it 
was  —  that  came  to  our  house  — " 

"  I  have  never  been  so  since  — I  swear  it." 

"Swear  it  to  Roberta,  then:  I  am  glad  she  has 
done  more  for  you  than  I  could." 

"  I  did  it  for  you  —  you  know  I  am  mad  about  you. 
I  dream  of  you  at  night.  It 's  torment  to  be  in  the 
house  with  you  here  like  a  stranger — " 

"  We  must  be  strangers  !  Are  n't  you  well  enough 
to  go  away?" 

He  was  quick  to  seize  the  note  of  pleading  :  "  Clare 
—  dearest  —  we  must  go  together.  There  is  no  other 
honest  way.  Nobody  needs  us  as  we  need  each  other. 
You  are  not  happy  —  are  you  ?  You  laugh,  but  are 
you  happy  ?  " 

She  rose —  "  You  can't  say  those  things  to  me  ;  you 
are  mad ! "  As  she  swept  past  him  with  a  look,  he 
sprang  to  hold  her  ;  she  tore  herself  away,  and  he  fell 
back  with  a  low  groan.  The  sight  of  his  weakness 
conquered. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  boy  !  I  have  hurt  you  !  "  They  were 
in  each  other's  arms;  she  was  left  to  make  the  fight 
alone  and  she  was  not  strong  enough.  They  loved 
each  other  in  a  fashion  which  is  too  old  to  be  tampered 
with,  even  in  modern  clothes  and  in  houses  of  the  just. 

Thereafter  he  sat  much  in  silence,  smoking  hard, 
or  with  eyes  closed,  feigning  sleep.  And  he  had 
bought  the  six-and-sixty. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  two  machines  stood  side  by  side  in  the  old  tavern 
coach-house :  Morton's  long,  formidable  car  shining 
with  brass  and  varnish,  upholstered  for  passengers 
like  a  liner,  Tom's  able  little  craft  painted  service- 
gray,  clean  as  a  cruiser  going  into  action.  They  were 
not  near  enough  equals  to  be  rivals.  Between  the  two 
owners  there  was  the  greatest  amicability. 

Dalby  had  taken  out  his  car  first  with  Tom  at  the 
wheel — they  came  back  with  parts  reversed  ;  Dalby 
white  about  the  mouth  and  fresh-cheeked,  but  ghastly 
tired.  He  slept  badly  that  night,  driving  on  a  road 
that  dropped  off  high  places  slowly,  or  Clare  stood 
square  in  the  track  and  held  up  her  hand  too  late  ; 
or  she  sang  and  he  was  on  the  bench  beside  her  — 
"Oh,  love  —  oh,  love,  we  will  wait  no  more."  But  that 
was  no  dream ;  it  was  a  treacherous  vision  between 
dark  and  dawn  —  birds  in  the  oak's  high  chambers 
peeping  drowsily  and  the  garden  silent,  dusk,  and 
cool  awaiting  the  scorching  day. 

Finally  he  could  ask  ladies  —  he  took  them  all  one 
day,  all  except  Mary,  who  pined  for  one  afternoon 
alone  in  the  empty  house  to  think  her  own  thoughts 
—  perchance  to  think  about  herself,  lost  as  a  nurse 
must  be  ordinarily  to  her  own  identity.  Mary  thought 
about  herself  and  one  other  person  — on  whose  habit 
of  being  late  she  had  counted.  She  sat  under  the  ap- 

292 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

pie  trees  where  the  fruit  was  large  and  green,  and 
slow  teams  crawled  past  with  loads  of  hay  on  the  road 
hid  by  the  oleanders. 

Tom's  coming  home  early  surprised  her,  but  after 
the  first  look  she  did  not  shirk  the  truth :  he  had 
come  on  purpose  —  she  must  give  him  his  chance  at 
last.  He  sat  on  the  grass  at  her  side,  his  strong  hands 
locked  about  his  knees  and  his  brown  throat  loosely 
collared  ;  he  had  brought  a  coat  and  thrown  it  down 
where  Bran,  seeing  nothing  amusing  in  prospect,  took 
it  for  his  own  use  and  went  to  sleep  on  it.  Then  Tom 
made  himself  understood  as  men  of  his  type  always 
have,  though  not  in  words  to  be  recorded. 

Mary  gave  him  frankly  to  know  that  it  was  neither 
small  means  nor  long  waiting  that  stood  between 
them,  were  marriage  possible  on  other  —  the  true — 
grounds. 

" Is  this  wisdom,  or  don't  you  care  for  me?"  She 
saw  again  the  pain  in  his  long,  gray  eyes  ;  he  had 
looked  at  her  so  in  the  Bruces'  garden  when  she 
denied  him  that  imagined  journey  home.  She  had 
never  regretted  doing  so ;  the  same  instinct  warned 
her  now. 

"  It  is  more  wisdom  than  the  other,"  she  owned, 
frankly,  yielding  as  far  as  she  dared  ;  "  though  I  don't 
think  I  do  care  for  you  enough,  or  I  could  n't  be  so 
wise  —  could  I?"  He  did  not  answer  her.  "  I  don't 
ask  you,"  she  went  on  hurriedly  —  "I  just  want  to  tell 
you  —  it  is  one  of  my  intuitions  that  there  has  been 
something  —  very  naturally  —  in  your  mind  toward 
your  cousin  Clare.  Not  now,  of  course :  I  know  you 

293 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

are  honest  —  but —  Now  I'll  tell  you  all  there  is  of 
it !  I  overheard  her  one  evening  say  to  you  under  my 
window, '  How  nice  our  Mary  looks  !  Don't  you  think 
she  is  pretty  happy,  these  days  ? '  That  was  all,  but  it 
sounded  what  I  should  call  intimate  as  regards  you 

—  which  is  all  right,  of  course ;  but  as  regards  me 

—  I  got  up  and  walked  away,  not  because  it  was 
proper,  but  I  was  too  mad  to  sit  still ! " 

"  I  should  think  so  ! "  said  Tom,  wincing.  "  But  if 
you  had  waited  a  moment  you  would  have  heard  me 
give  her  the  only  answer  I  could  give.  I  have  never 
spoken  of  you  to  her  intimately,  or  any  other  way, 
except  when  I  was  compelled  to ;  and  yet  you  are 
partly  right  —  Clare  took  that  liberty  because  she 
knows  that  for  a  few  weeks  last  year  I  was  a  fool 
about  her.  As  I  never  spoke  of  it  while  it  lasted,  I  was 
not  bound  to  tell  her  when  it  was  over.  Don't  you 
know  —  this  moment,  Mary,  who  it  is  that  can  hurt 
me  ?  If  you  had  made  such  a  speech  to  me  about 
Clare,  that  would  have  hurt  —  that  you  could  have 
made  it !  Clare  is  nothing  to  me  but  a  pretty  cousin 
whom  I  shall  always  be  fond  of  —  " 

"  You  won't  say  these  things  if  it  hurts  you  — 
please  ?" 

"  It  does  n't  hurt  me.  If  there  had  been  more  to  it, 
I  should  have  told  you  in  the  first  place,  but  there 
was  n't.  She  was  the  first  person  I  saw  after  I  got 
home  —  I  saw  her  first  just  after  my  father  died. 
She  was  holding  mother  in  her  arms." 

"Don't  —  please  don't!"  said  Mary.  "I  feel  so 
cheap  to  have  spoken  as  I  did  —  as  if  you  weren't 

294 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

you,  beyond  a  doubt.  And  yet,  your  letter,  that  I 
could  n't  answer,  showed  me  you  were  thinking  hard 
about  something  else  —  underneath  the  words ;  I 
can't  quite  believe  you  were  a  fool  —  then  —  were 
you?" 

"Clare  was  here  in  the  house  at  the  time,"  said 
Tom.  "  Yes,  you  were  right  —  then,  but  you  are  not 
right  now.  It 's  too  bad  to  waste  time  on  it !  —  Is 
this  all  that  stands  between  us?" 

"  Oh,  no  —  there  are  other  things ;  serious  things 
one  need  n't  be  ashamed  to  speak  of.  There  are  my 
parents,  with  their  work  so  far  away.  I  'm  about  all 
they  have,  except  the  work.  My  poor  doctor-mother 
didn't  like  Hongkong,  but  it's  nearer  than  Cali- 
fornia." 

"  Is  this  all  —  absolutely  all  ?  —  because  a  mother 
as  unselfish  as  yours  would  n't  be  against  me  in  this, 
I  'm  certain  she  would  not  —  if  you  were  willing  to 
show  her  that  you  cared  for  me." 

It  was  not  quite  all,  but  the  rest  was  difficult. 
Mary  was  too  wise  to  say,  in  so  many  words,  "  I 
cannot  feel  at  home  with  your  mother;  I  should 
not  be  happy  as  the  third  woman  in  this  house, 
even  as  your  wife."  She  kept  these  thoughts  to 
herself. 

"  But  won't  you  be  engaged  to  me,  dear  ?  " 

"  No  ;  long  engagements  are  wearing — and  weak- 
ening. When  we  are  able  to  think  of  it  at  all,  there 
need  n't  be  any  engagement." 

He  laid  his  head  on  her  knees,  his  boyish  head 
of  sun-warmed,  rumpled  hair,  and  she  stroked  it,  but 

295 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

not  in  the  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  she  had  com- 
forted many  a  man  in  pain. 

"  I  hear  them  coming,"  she  said.  "And  I  ought  to 
be  in  the  pantry  this  minute  making  my  patient  a 
peach-cobbler." 

Tom  went  with  her,  ostensibly  to  crack  ice,  and, 
a  pantry  being  a  place  devoted  to  realities,  Mary 
changed  the  key  at  once. 

"  I  must  get  away  from  here  soon,  you  know :  it 's 
a  farce  my  staying,  as  it  is.  When  a  patient  asks  his 
nurse  to  go  motoring  —  " 

"But  you  are  staying  with  us:  you  are  our 
refugee." 

"I  am  a  nurse  without  a  case,  and  hardly  any 
aprons.  I  must  earn  some  money,  and  then  I  must 
go  home.  I  suppose  "  —  she  went  on  glibly,  in  spite 
of  his  reproachful  look,  —  "I  suppose  the  San 
Francisco  millionaires  are  doing  their  banking  in  hot 
ashes  about  now?  —  we  ought  to  know  —  having 
seen  the  ashes !  Mr.  Morton  does  n't  discharge  his 
nurse  —  could  it  be  because  he  cannot  pay  her  till 
his  father  comes  home  ?  That  would  be  more  em- 
barrassing for  me  than  for  him." 

"Mary,  Mary!" 

"  It 's  no  new  thing  for  these  Gladwyns  to  sponge 
on  you,  Tom;  —  I  '11  take  you  up  on  that  offer  you 
made  me  in  the  city  when  we  were  so  proud  to  be 
simply  alive.  I  want  my  fare  down,  and  a  trifle  over 
for  —  aprons." 

;'  They  parted  with  the  gloomy  assurance  on  Tom's 
part  that  his  pockets  would  not  suffer  for  her  fares 

296 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

or  her  aprons  —  he  was  still  the  banker  for  large 
sums  —  and  the  motorists  came  up  the  path.  Mrs. 
Scarth  had  not  quite  mastered  the  hat-and-veil  ques- 
tion, and  was  somewhat  disheveled  in  appearance 
as  well  as  shaken  in  nerve  by  Dal  by' s  unexpected 
style  of  driving.  Engracia  had  not  wanted  to  go, 
and  Clare  had  something  on  her  mind  that  made 
her  cheeks  blaze  even  more  than  facing  the  sun  on 
the  front  seat  coming  home.  Dalby  alone  looked  bet- 
ter for  the  ride.  He  mounted  the  stairs  slowly  and 
was  overtaken  by  Clare,  who  turned  in  the  upper  hall 
and  asked,  "  How  did  it  go  this  time?" 

"You  and  I,  next  time!"    He  caught  her  hand 
and  kissed  it 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A  REFUGEE  cook  had  been  added  to  the  household 
at  Roadside — much  reduced  in  her  own  eyes  by  her 
present  humble  situation.  I  forget  what  great  lady 
of  the  late  metropolis  she  boasted  she  had  lived  with 
and  had  had  a  kitchen-maid  and  a  Japanese  to  do  her 
bidding.  Annie,  Mrs.  Lud well's  ex-chambermaid,  now 
did  the  upstairs  work  in  addition  to  waiting,  with  a 
few  volunteer  attentions  to  Miss  Clare  for  the  sake 
of  being  near  her  and  exchanging  a  mournful  word 
now  and  then  about  when  "  we  lived  on  California 
Street" 

Annie  had  written  to  a  friend  at  Overleap  (where 
they  were  very  busy  getting  ready  for  the  June 
bride's  return)  that,  "  We  have  got  your  bridegroom 
here  with  us,  and  any  one  with  half  an  eye  could  see 
he  's  in  no  hurry  to  get  well."  Maggie  Wittle,  the 
friend,  might  make  what  she  liked  of  the  remark; 
she  was  one  that  kept  a  still  tongue  in  her  head. 
Further  tax  was  laid  on  that  still  tongue  a  few  days 
later :  Annie  Galway,  sitting  up  late  for  reasons,  in 
the  Roadside  kitchen,  wrote  out  the  day's  events  to 
her  friend,  with  a  warning  not  to  let  a  word  escape 
her  as  to  these  developments  which  would  "  all  be  in 
the  papers  soon  enough,  let  them  hush  it  all  they 
could."  Maggie  might  depend  on  what  followed  as 
the  truth. 

298 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

The  day  was  a  Saturday  and  the  cook's  day  out, 
but  too  hot  to  go  walking  in  the  afternoon.  She  had 
asked  Annie  to  go  out  with  her  as  soon  as  her  dishes 
were  done,  and  that  was  how  she  turned  her  beds 
down  at  five  instead  of  half  past  eight,  and  found 
the  note  a  good  three  hours  sooner  than  Miss  Clare, 
the  poor  thing,  intended  when  she  pinned  it  on  the 
sheet  where  the  bedspread  would  hide  it.  It  was 
sealed,  and  it  had  Mrs.  Scarth's  name  on  it,  which 
looked  queer  enough  and  they  both  in  the  same 
house.  And  only  for  Mr.  Scarth  coming  in  to  tea  on 
time,  which  he  seldom  did,  his  mother  could  not 
have  caught  him  and  the  two  got  away  so  soon.  It 
was  n't  while  you  'd  peel  a  potato  after  she  read  the 
note,  when  they  was  off  in  his  little  car  flying  down 
the  road  and  the  dust  swallowed  them.  And  Miss 
Scarth  and  the  trained  nurse  that 's  in  it  sitting  and 
saying  nothing  at  their  dinner  like  there  was  a  death 
in  the  house.  And  the  table  to  stand  waiting  —  here 
it  is  going  on  for  ten  o'clock,  and  set  for  four  to 
make  out  like  they  would  all  be  coming  back  to- 
gether when  who  would  n't  know  the  two  was 
chasing  after  the  other  two ! 

That  very  afternoon  it  was,  Miss  Clare  had  gone 
off  with  Mr.  Morton,  him  driving  his  own  car,  and 
nobody  seen  them  go ;  but  when  it  come  on  late  and 
everything  so  queer-like,  Annie,  to  satisfy  herself,  had 
looked  through  Miss  Clare's  things  and  her  jewel- 
box  was  gone  and  clothes  she  'd  never  need  on  a  bit 
of  a  ride,  and  Mr.  Morton's  heavy  coat  which  he 
never  wore  it  since  he  come,  and  his  bag  and  the 

299 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

dressing-things  off  his  bureau  ;  —  "  and  if  the  papers 
is  n't  full  of  them  two  before  you  '11  be  reading  this 
my  name  's  not  Annie  Galway.  But  don't  you  believe 
anything  only  what  I  'm  after  telling  you ;  for  if 
they're  catched,  things  will  be  hushed  up,  but  it 
wouldn't  be  me  that  would  be  in  your  mistress's 
shoes,  not  for  all  she's  got  in  the  world  —  " 

The  little  four-cylinder  fleeted  down  the  road,  not 
later,  as  Annie  had  said,  than  half  after  five,  giving 
the  pair  of  mad  children  barely  two  hours'  start. 
They  were  on  a  long,  descending  grade  with  the 
open  valley  country  below  them,  Caroline's  head 
describing  sharp  parabolas  in  time  to  the  water- 
breaks  which  occur  on  that  road  conscientiously 
every  quarter-mile.  The  sun  shone  in  their  faces 
and  flashed  in  Tom's  eyes  from  the  brass-bound 
wind-shield ;  he  asked  if  it  might  go  down  —  be- 
ing also  a  slight  impediment  to  speed.  Caroline 
nodded  assent,  and  thereafter  for  the  next  mile 
struggled  with  a  blowing  veil  catching  on  all  her 
hatpins.  They  settled  down  to  work,  and  she  saw 
no  more  of  the  road  than  a  flying  panorama.  Her 
mind  ran  on  what  she  should  say  to  Clare  if  the  pair 
were  caught,  weakly  foreseeing  failure  to  say  the 
right  thing :  they  would  not  be  easy  to  impress  with 
any  point  of  view  but  their  own. 

Suddenly,  Tom  spoke  out  of  his  share  of  the  si- 
lence: "Why  are  we  doing  this,  mother?  Do  you 
expect  to  stop  their  getting  married?" 

"  I  expect  to  stop  their  getting  married  this  way. 
Clare  must  see  her  father  and  mother  first." 

300 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"They  have  never  refused  her  anything,  have 
they?" 

"  They  will  refuse  her  now  1 "  Passing  to  the  next 
question,  though  half  ashamed  of  it,  she  asked, 
"  Where  could  they  get  a  license?" 

Tom  answered  with  incredible  coolness  (it  was 
astonishing  how  little  all  this  seemed  to  move  him), 
"  Marysville  or  Sacramento  —  hardly  Marysville  — 
too  near  home." 

"They  would  have  to  have  witnesses — " 

"That's  easy." 

"  Tom,"  his  mother  ventured,  "  does  n't  this  nearly 
destroy  you  —  this  errand  we  are  on?" 

"Why  should  it,  mother?  It 's  not  as  hard  for  me 
as  for  you  —  /shan't  have  to  talk." 

"  Bless  me  ! "  she  cried  to  herself. 

"  Had  you  got  that  idea,  too?  "  Tom  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"What  idea?" 

"  That  I  was  "  —  he  lightly  swung  the  car  aside  to 
avoid  ruts  —  deep,  dry  ruts  of  last  spring's  teaming 
—  " in  love  with  Clare?" 

"  Why,  of  course  I  had ! " 

"Then  get  rid  of  it  as  quick  as  you  can,  please. 
Mine  is  a  very  different  trouble." 

"Have  you  got  another  trouble,  Tom?"  Caroline 
quaked  before  the  confidence  brought  on  by  her  own 
mistake,  which  Tom  naturally  found  unbearable. 

He  thought  she  might  have  put  it  a  little  differently, 
but  he  merely  said :  "  Mary  was  my  first  trouble  —  she 
will  be  the  last." 

301 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

So  that  was  settled  in  one  word  —  the  question  a 
mother  spends  hours  of  anxious  speculation  and  com- 
parison over ;  and  both  Tom's  hands  were  busy — 
she  could  not  even  squeeze  one  in  silence. 

"  Is  it  to  be  soon  ?  "  she  asked  timidly.  "  It  was  so 
dear  of  you  to  tell  me.*' 

"I've  nothing  to  tell,"  said  Tom— "that's  the 
trouble !  She  does  n't  discourage  me,  quite ;  she  keeps 
me  waiting." 

"  You  have  always  been  waiting,  dear  boy." 

"I  expect  —  it's  my  time  to  wait,"  he  jerked  out. 
—  "  See  what  narrow  tires  do  ! "  He  had  struck  a  rut 
this  time  and  tossed  his  mother  clean  up  from  the 
seat.  It  was  careless  —  and  he  talked  no  more.  The 
road  swam  past.  Broken  lines  of  trees  following  the 
fences,  a  house  in  a  small  front  yard,  grassless,  swept 
by  the  housewife's  broom,  —  bareheaded  children 
running  out  to  stare  at  the  new  sight  on  those  lonely 
valley  roads, — a  cattle-yard  and  yearlings  bucketing 
away  with  high  tails.  No  more  trees  —  the  country 
dryer  and  poorer  —  lines  of  fence-wire,  lines  and  lines 
reeling  in  beneath  their  tires  as  fast  as  the  distance 
fed  them.  Crops  again  —  green  and  gold,  green  and 
tan  —  belts  of  solid  color  and  the  long  straight  road, 
a  gray-yellow  band  between.  He  put  on  speed :  the 
gauge  flicks  round  —  past  the  forty-mile  mark,  but 
it  does  not  last.  She  had  scarcely  begun  to  feel  that 
pride  of  speed,  sharing  Tom's  silent  ecstasy,  when 
the  road  breaks  up  into  hills  and  hollows  and  sharp 
turns.  This  looks  more  like  California  —  splendid 
sunlit  oaks  in  a  great  meadow  casting  eastward  their 

302 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

black  velvet  mantles  of  shade.  The  days  are  long, 
but  it  must  be  near  six  o'clock.  A  bunch  of  woods 
darkening  an  intervale  ;  they  splash  through  undried 
mud  —  «  Tire-tracks  — fresh  "  Tom  mentions. 

"When  does  the  Limited  reach  Sacramento?" 
Caroline  inquired.  He  gave  the  hour.  "We  shall  be 
too  late,"  she  said. 

"  Lots  may  happen  between  here  and  Sacramento. 
He 's  a  wild  driver,  and  he  was  cheated  on  that  car." 

They  entered  Marysville.  Marysville  had  seen  — 
and  heard — the  big  red  car  thundering  across  D 
Street  Bridge,  where  the  legal  limit  is  five  miles. 
Marysville  would  like  to  see  it  come  back  that  way  — 
she  would  be  ready  for  it  next  time.  D  Street  Bridge 
leads  to  the  highroad  to  Sacramento  —  no  boulevard 
then !  Soft,  broad  tire-tracks  were  still  ahead  in  the  deep 
dust  unstirred  at  this  hour  of  little  traffic.  The  long  May 
afternoon  drew  toward  sunset  and  the  country  was  too 
beautiful  to  miss  with  unregardful  eyes.  Caroline  sat 
up  refreshed  by  the  change  to  coolness.  Low,  sharp 
lights  illumined  the  black  cattle  in  home-fields  gath- 
ered after  milking.  Darker  shadows  climbed  the 
smooth  slopes,  and  a  group  of  lone  pines  stood  out 
on  one  promontory  bluff  where  the  cultivator's  axe 
had  left  them  —  black  against  the  clear  gold  west. 
And  now  the  ineffable  coast  line  lifted  its  pure  blue, 
and  they  were  on  the  last  lap  of  their  seaward  course. 
They  make  up  time  —  thirty,  forty,  forty-five,  fifty  — 
Caroline  exults  that  the  little  car  can  bear  it.  Tom's 
hand  never  rested  playing  the  shuddering  wheel ; 
she  forgot  why  they  were  doing  this  ;  she  was  in  high, 

303 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

hard  spirits  —  was  this  in  every  one  of  us  —  the  pas- 
sion for  quick  decision  and  any  excuse  to  chase  some- 
thing ahead  of  us  with  a  fair  chance  or  not  —  im- 
material so  we  beat? 

"I  don't  see  how  he  can  stand  it,"  she  said  in  a 
shaken  voice. 

"  I  expect  he  and  his  car  will  both  be  in  trouble 
before  they  reach  Sacr —  " 

"  Stop  1"  shrieked  Caroline ;  "  there  they  are ! " 

Tom  had  stopped  because  he  was  obliged  to  —  to 
avoid  a  big  red  car  half  in  the  road,  half  over  the 
soft  bank,  but  empty.  Caroline  trembled  at  sight  of 
the  disordered  wraps  and  cushions  thrown  down  — 

"It  Js  not  an  accident,"  Tom  assured  her.  "They 
did  n't  go  over,  but  they  could  n't  get  her  back  They 
must  have  tried  to  pass  some  one  in  a  hurry." 

Investigation  showed  they  would  not  have  had 
help  to  get  away  —  the  wagon-tracks  all  led  north. 
They  had  walked,  the  hapless  pair ;  footprints  were 
plain  on  the  dusty  side-path.  The  pursuers  drove  on 
slowly  till  they  came  to  a  house  not  far  from  the  road 
and  Tom  stopped  to  make  inquiries.  A  girl  ran  out 
from  the  porch,  reconnoitered,  and  ran  as  swiftly  back 
again  —  it  was  Clare. 

The  car  was  brought  up  to  the  gate  and  Tom 
opened  the  door  for  his  mother. 

Caroline  staggered  to  the  ground.  "  She  's  prob- 
ably there  alone  —  if  I  only  knew  what  it  means ! 
Tom,  I  'm  an  awful  coward." 

"  Well,  mother,  you  don't  have  to  say  much  :  it 's 
up  to  them ! " 

304 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

As  a  last  surprise,  it  was  Clare  herself  who  opened 
the  door,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Cousin!  oh,  it  is  good  to  see  you  —  but  we  did 
hate  to  have  you  beat  us  ! " 

Caroline's  prepared  speeches  left  her :  she  kissed 
the  girl's  cheek  mechanically,  and  they  went  inside 
and  seated  themselves  face  to  face  on  a  tawdry  little 
sofa  under  a  photograph,  life-size  —  probably  the 
respectable  citizen  whose  house  the  runaways  had 
appropriated.  Caroline  speculated  upon  nothing  ex- 
cept the  fact  that,  while  the  place  and  circumstances 
were  so  distorted  as  to  be  almost  unbelievable,  Clare 
herself  seemed  just  the  same,  only  nervous  and 
sweeter.  She  had  been  crying  —  but  her  words  told 
nothing  at  first :  they  came  haphazard. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  awful  as  this  room ! 
—  I  didn't  know  there  were  such  rooms.  —  Oh, 
cousin,  what  do  you  think  of  us,  anyhow !  Well,  it 
does  n't  matter  now  what  anybody  thinks.  We  are 
in  such  a  frightful  fix.  I  thought  at  first  you  were  the 
doctor ;  I  ran  out  to  tell  him  this  was  the  house.  We 
telephoned  from  nowhere  —  we  don't  know  these 
people's  names  nor  their  number — Then  I  saw  it 
was  you,  and  it  seemed  so  senseless  to  stand  there 
and  be  caught  —  but  I  am  glad  you  have  come 1" 

"  Are  you  here  alone  ?  Was  this  part  of  your  plan  ?  " 
asked  Caroline  dazed. 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  Did  n't  you  pass  our  machine  ? 
Dalby  worked  over  it  till  he  was  almost  dead.  We 
came  here  to  find  a  telephone  and  the  house  was 
locked,  but  we  looked  through  a  window  and  saw 

305 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

they  had  one  and  Dalby  forced  the  hook  of  a  screen 
door — and  that  finished  him!  Don't  mind  if  I  cry 
—  I've  a  great  deal  —  to  answer  for  ! "  Clare  swept 
her  handkerchief  over  her  face.  Her  eyes  had  looked 
into  Caroline's  like  a  child's,  woeful  and  appealing : 
the  woman  would  have  been  a  stone  who  did  not  em- 
brace and  comfort  her — shocked  by  her  first  trouble 
on  the  road  to  easy  joy.  "  Oh,  cousin,  he  has  hurt 
himself.  He  was  not  fit  in  the  first  place — and  he  had 
a  horrid  time  with  the  car,  trying  to  get  it  up  the  bank. 
He  cranked  and  cranked !  —  and,  of  course,  he  would- 
n't let  me  help.  I've  been  very  thoughtless — How 
Mary  Gladwyn  would  despise  me :  all  her  work  un- 
done ! " 

"  He  is  most  to  blame  on  all  accounts,"  said  Caro- 
line, "  but  that 's  no  comfort  to  you.  I  shall  have  to 
say,  though — you  must  not  take  too  much  for 
granted :  we  will  help  you  all  we  can,  but  not  to  carry 
out  this  wretched  plan  you  started  on.  —  Come,"  she 
rose  taking  Clare's  hand;  "let  me  see  your  sick 


man." 


"  You  won't  scold  him,  will  you  ? — he 's  very  sick !" 
Caroline   smiled.     "Tom  is  down   at  the   gate; 
would  n't  you  like  him  to  come  in  ?  We  shall  need 
him  —  he  won't  scold ! " 

Dalby  lay  on  a  strange  bed  in  a  room  of  pathetic 
adornments  which  had  never  known  a  fire.  Many 
covers  of  a  cheap  and  cottony  description  were  over 
him ;  he  was  shaking  with  a  chill,  but  he  was  silent 
and  courteous  and  uncomplaining.  Such  first  aids  as 
the  house  supplied,  after  Tom  had  lighted  the  kitchen 

306 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

fire,  were  administered,  a  distress  signal  hung  out  at 
the  gate,  and  they  sat  around  waiting  for  the  doctor. 
Dalby  did  everything  he  was  told,  swallowed  every- 
thing presented  to  his  lips  —  including  the  cup  of 
bitter  fate,  all  with  equal  grace.  Having  lost,  he  re- 
mained winner  still  in  his  own  incontestable  field  of 
charm  and  sweetness  and  sportsmanlike  behavior. 
Caroline  endeavored  to  keep  a  sense  of  justice  and 
recall  the  thing  he  had  done,  while  watching  beside 
him  with  looks  of  motherly  kindness,  and  feeling  her 
hand  clasped  now  and  again  by  Clare  stealing  in  to 
gaze  at  the  poor  boy,  white  and  smiling  through  his 
agony.  Those  two  simply  spoke  with  their  eyes  — 
with  instinctive  delicacy  Clare  gave  no  other  sign  of 
emotion,  nor  did  he  seek  it. 

The  young  woman  who  answers  the  Farmers'  Line 
at  Sacramento's  central  office  became  interested 
toward  nightfall  in  a  series  of  calls  which  rang  up  in 
quick  succession  from  a  mysterious  house  on  the 
Marysville  road — "north,"  and  "within  ten  miles 
of  the  city."  This  was  the  sole  description  —  First,  a 
man's  voice  which  broke  off  and  left  the  message 
unfinished  ;  then  a  girl's,  and  a  second  man's.  None 
of  the  three  knew  exactly  where  they  spoke  from  — 
in  whose  house  nor  the  telephone  number,  and  only 
the  last  voice  gave  names. 

They  wanted  a  city  garage,  and  next  a  doctor; 
finally — and  here  Central  pricked  her  ears,  being  a 
faithful  reader  of  the  Society  Column  in  San  Fran- 
cisco's dailies  —  Mrs.  Thomas  Ludwell  was  asked  to 
meet  "  Clare  "  at  the  Sacramento  Hotel  as  early  as 

307 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

possible  to-morrow  (Sunday!)  morning.  "Clare  is 
well,"  the  message  finished ;  signed  "  C.  Scarth." 
Followed  a  long-distance  call  via  Torresville  for  a 
Miss  Gladwyn  addressed  as  "Mary  "  :  "This  is  Tom. 
Please  be  in  Sacramento  by  the  morning  train  to- 
morrow. —  Yes ;  we  will  meet  you.  Your  patient  has 
had  a  relapse." 

So  there  you  are !  said  Central :  two  men  and  a  girl 

—  probably  Mrs.   LudwelTs   daughter  —  in   an  un- 
known   house  on  the    Marysville  road,  wanting  a 
doctor,  a  mother,  a  Mary  who  was  a  nurse  —  and  an 
ambulance-car  for  a  sick  man. 

But  Central's  puzzle  was  nothing  to  the  mystifica- 
tion of  the  worthy  owners  of  the  borrowed  house 
when  they  returned,  after  a  theater-night  and  a  visit 
to  friends  in  town,  to  find  automobile-tracks  scoring 
the  road  before  their  gate,  the  house  entered,  food 
taken,  a  fire  burned  out,  and  ten  dollars  on  the 
kitchen-table,  with  "  Thanks  "  on  a  blank  card.  Evi- 
dently they  had  entertained  high-class  burglars  mak- 
ing their  escape  and  behaving  like  angels  unawares 

—  for  not  a  thing  of  value  had  been  taken  —  not 
even  the  best  teaspoons  they  had  used — and  washed ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  two  girls  at  Roadside  were  seated  opposite  each 
other  at  Mary's  early  breakfast.  It  was  next  morning 
—  Sunday,  and  no  stage ;  a  carriage  had  been  ordered 
from  Torresville.  They  had  finished  speculating  over 
Tom's  telegram  —  the  whole  subject  being  one  which 
had  its  obvious  limitations. 

"  Now,  Mary,  don't  say  you  are  not  coming  back ! 
Don't  go  and  do  anything  rash  because  San  Fran- 
cisco is  burned  —  there  are  other  places.  If  it 's  nurs- 
ing you  want,  I  expect  to  be  a  nervous  prostrate 
myself  before  the  summer  is  over." 

"  Don't  joke  ! "  said  Mary,  "  or  I  '11  tell  you  how 
you  look.  You  are  not  always  so  thin,  are  you?" 

"  I  should  despise  myself  if  I  were  n't  thin  !  How 
about  you ! " 

"  Me !  I  'm  as  hard  as  nails  !  " 

"  Yes,  you  look  like  nails  —  I  can  just  feel  you  ! " 
There  was  some  idle  laughter  while  Engracia  sorted 
over  last  night's  mail,  arrived  per  carriage  for  Mary. 

"  How  sickening ! "  she  exclaimed  —  "  here  is  this 
pile  of  stuff  for  Clare  and  Dalby  Morton  —  foreign 
letters  for  him.  You  will  have  to  take  these  with 
you,  Mary.  —  Why,  look  here  !  What  has  Korea  got 
to  say  to  our  old  Tom  at  this  late  day  ?  Does  n't  that 
postmark  spell  Seoul?  "  Engracia  held  up  a  thin,  gray 
envelope,  male  size  —  "  Nice  distinguished-looking 
band  —  English,  should  n't  you  say  ?  " 

309 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Mary  looked  at  it  with  an  odd  expression — "I 
should — as  I  happen  to  know  the  hand." 

"  Well !  —  in  that  case,  would  Tom  mind,  I  wonder, 
if  I  pumped  you  a  little  ?  " 

"Pump  away!"  said  Mary;  "he'll  not  risk  much 
that  you  can  get  out  of  me.  That  letter,  I  should  say, 
was  from  Mr.  Bruce  —  "  she  stopped  with  parted  lips 
and  took  breath  —  "husband  of  a  great  friend  of  my 
mother's.  I  've  the  more  reason  to  think  so,  that  he 
asked  for  your  brother's  address  and  several  other 
questions  about  him,  the  last  time  I  stayed  with  them 
at  Seoul." 

"  How  remarkable ! " 

"Is  it?"  said  Mary.  Her  face  turned  slowly  red. 
"  Mr.  Bruce  handles — I  think  they  call  it  —  various 
investments  all  over  the  East  for  English  and  Scotch 
clients;"  her  matter-of-fact  manner  appeared  a  little 
forced.  "He  may  want  some  information  in  your 
brother's  '  line.'  He  left  a  name  for  saying  what  was 
'  so,'  as  far  as  he  knew  it,  and  they  seemed  to  think 
he  knew  a  good  deal." 

"  That 's  very  nice  to  hear,  but  I  hope  his  name 
won't  arise  and  haul  him  suddenly  over  there. — 
Could  that  be  possible,  I  wonder?" 

Both  had  endeavored  to  speak  lightly,  avoiding 
each  other's  eyes.  After  a  moment  Mary  said,  "Is  it 
the  Yellow  countries  only  you  dread,  or  exile  in  a 
general  way?" 

"I  dread  dividing  three  by  two  —  which  is  par- 
ticularly weak  in  one  supposed  to  have  been  brought 
up  to  that  kind  of  thing.  Papa  and  mamma  were 

310 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

always  dividing  till  they  came  here  and  we  were 
buried  all  together  comfortably  out  of  harm's  way." 

Mary  smiled  faintly.  "  But  you  would  go  together 
now,  would  n't  you  ?  As  you  say  of  San  Francisco — 
there  are  other  places — even  burial-places." 

"  Mary  dear ! "  —  Engracia  paused.  How  could 
she  talk  to  this  exiled  girl  about  the  spell  of  conti- 
nuity—  one  home,  one  place,  one  set  of  associations? 
How  express  that  other  faithless  fear  known  only  to 
herself! 

"  You  look  so  frightened,"  said  Mary. 

"  What  geese  we  are  —  discussing  the  outside  of 
a  letter!  There  really  is  something  in  it,  though. 
Don't  you  feel  clairvoyant  this  morning?  How  did 
you  sleep  last  night  ?  Come,  be  a  wizard  —  I  simply 
can't  wait  till  Tom  comes !  Take  hold  of  this  now  and 
tell  me  —  shut  your  eyes  —  tell  me  what's  in  it  for 
him  —  and  for  us  in  consequence." 

"  I  can  tell  you,  without  shutting  my  eyes ;  it 's  a 
list  of  questions  about  Korean  mines  or  Korean  irri- 
gation, and  it  asks  the  favor  of  *  an  early  reply.'  And 
I  assure  you,  any  young  man  may  call  himself  lucky 
who  is  able  to  oblige  Mr.  Reginald  Bruce." 

"  Worldly,  worldly !  But  I  am  talking  you  out  of 
your  breakfast :  that  egg  is  stiff  and  cold.  Do'ee  take 
another  —  " 

"  I  wish  sometimes  everything  else  was  stiff  and 
cold ! "  Mary  rose  quickly.  "  It  was  hard  to  come 
here  — it's  harder  now  to  go !  I  must  get  off  at  once 
—  Oh,  how  good  you  have  been  to  me  ! "  They  em- 
braced and  said  little  things  to  each  other,  not  disguis- 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ing  the  probability  of  a  long  if  not  a  last  good-bye. 
Mary  had  a  strong  suspicion  about  Tom's  letter  which 
made  her  feel  a  traitor  in  Engracia' s  arms.  She  an- 
swered her  plea  of  "  Don't  forget  us,  Mary ! "  with  a 
silent  kiss. 

"  But  why  don't  I  give  you  this  ?  "  Engracia  pro- 
duced the  letter.  "  You  will  see  Tom  to-night." 

"  Oh,  no,"  Mary  resisted  :  "  I  might  up  and  lose 
it,  or  forget  to  give  it  to  him." 

"  Not  you  !  Take  it  along  —  we  don't  know  when 
he  will  be  back.  It 's  curious  how  little  we  do  know 
—  what's  going  on  down  there." 

"  Verdicts,"  said  Mary  :  "  family  and  doctors'  —  It 
will  mean  another  operation  for  him,  poor  wretch, 
when  his  other  goings-over  are  through  with." 

Engracia  thought  about  the  letter,  alone  in  the 
house  all  day.  That  a  gentleman  with  foreign  capital 
to  invest  should  ask  long-distance  questions  of  a 
young  American  whom  he  had  never  seen  —  as  she 
supposed  —  appeared,  to  even  her  unbusiness  mind, 
improbable.  Much  more  likely  he  had  a  favor  to  con- 
fer, on  a  friend  of  his  friends  who  had  assisted  them 
in  war's  extremity.  Yet  it  was  possible  Mr.  Bruce  had 
written  to  inquire  about  Mary,  without  Mrs.  Glad- 
wyn's  knowledge,  to  spare  her  mother  the  suspense. 
She  was  startled  to  find  how  she  clung  to  this  solution. 

What  was  the  antidote  that  had  killed  the  germ  of 
adventure  in  her  blood?  —  an  engineer's  daughter 
shrinking  at  her  time  of  life  from  the  first  breath  of 
change !  A  year  ago  —  not  six  months  ago  —  visions 
of  that  voyage  Tom  had  taken  —  sinking  down  the 

312 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

west  and  outward  to  the  purple  isles  —  would  have 
raised  a  wild  rabble  of  dreams,  and  glorious  spirits 
equal  to  any  alteration  of  circumstances.  What  was 
the  counter-spell?  And  why  should  it  load  her  with 
despair  to  see  her  life  ending  suddenly  in  exile  ?  What 
would  be  left  when  they  came  back — and  why,  if  they 
all  went  together,  should  she  care  ? 

It  was  the  first  of  three  days  of  record-breaking  heat. 
By  noon  she  had  darkened  all  the  downstairs  rooms 
in  front ;  the  maids  with  little  to  do  were  up  in  their 
own  rooms  on  the  shaded  side  above  the  garden.  She 
picked  up  Saturday's  paper  and  read  (and  there  was 
no  disguising  that  stab  of  pain)  the  name  of  Gifford 
Cornish,  the  city's  distinguished  guest, — the  late 
city,  —  who  would  leave  for  the  East  on  Monday,  his 
mission  accomplished  in  a  manner  worthy  of  its  gen- 
erous object.  Some  details  followed  about  relief  work ; 
then  the  names  of  his  host  and  hostess  over  Sunday, 
fashionable  persons  with  a  magnificent  country-house 
near  town  and  not  in  ruins.  He  would  not  stop,  go- 
ing past  them,  without  writing  first :  so  the  fading 
chance  was  gone. 

A  telephone-call  rang  through  the  office  sending  the 
blood  to  her  heart.  Long  Distance,  in  Tom's  voice, 
said,  as  nearly  as  she  could  hear  through  muffled 
drummings  over  the  wire,  "  Can't  get  back  to-night. 
Coming  to-morrow  —  late.  Yes;  very  hot.  Mother 
well.  Good-bye." 

All  to-day,  then,  and  to-morrow,  not  counting  night 
when  it  is  too  hot  to  sleep —  "Yes;  I  shall  need 
Korea  or  something,  if  this  goes  on." 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

It  was  eighty  in  her  bedroom  when  she  rose  next 
morning,  which  meant  over  a  hundred  at  noon  —  dry 
heat;  otherwise  one  would  collapse.  She  dressed  in 
whatever  was  coolest,  allowing  for  no  one  around. 
Tom  and  mamma,  we  were  thankful  to  say,  would  not 
need  to  start  till  late ;  days  were  at  their  longest  and 
there  was  a  fine  big  moon.  You  made  your  own 
breeze  with  Tom's  driving,  so  they  would  not  suffer — 
but  fancy  Sacramento  on  such  a  day !  —  "  My  poor 
people  —  what  a  gruesome  errand  1 "  And  dear  Cousin 
Anna  and  all  her  pride  in  Clare  —  and  Clare,  trapped 
between  two,  or  three,  sets  of  betrayals ;  —  Clare  so 
honest  at  heart,  and  Dalby  so  kind !  What  was  the 
right  and  wrong  in  these  things,  once  you  had  started 
wrong?  .  .  .  Life  is  like  flume-walking:  keep  off  of 
high  places  if  your  head  is  not  strong  —  and  don't 
look  down.  She  endeavored  to  stop  thinking  —  if  one 
could  only  stop  remembering!  ("Put  your  hands  on 
my  shoulders,  and  don't  look  down  ! ") 

Out  under  the  apple  trees  the  nearest  sprinkler 
spread  a  slight  breath  of  coolness ;  her  poor  plants 
were  limp,  but  no  watering  in  this  merciless  sun  — 
they  must  pine  till  evening.  No  flowers  in  the  house 
either ;  they  would  only  die.  Books  were  the  last  re- 
sort. She  sat  on  the  grass  and  pored  over  that  "  other 
old  fellow  you  don't  care  much  about"  —  It  was  not 
the  voice  of  youth,  but  most  modern  voices  were 
cheap  in  comparison  with  its  "  mightier  movements." 
It  gave  you  starry  thoughts,  and  poured  peace  and 
coolness  through  one's  mood.  Had  Cornish  foreseen 
a  time  to  come  when  she  would  have  need  of  that 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

pure  well?    She  turned  to  the  sonnet  she  called 
"his":  — 

"  Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not." 

Her  heart  cried  out :  "  At  least  he  is  not  a  hypo- 
crite 1 "  —  such  cant  as  this  —  from  him  to  her,  were 
he  what  his  false  friend  had  described  him  —  impos- 
sible !  He  might  never  speak  of  love  again,  but  when 
he  had  spoken  he  was  —  he  had  been  true  !  Genius 
has  this  power  over  those  susceptible  to  its  messages : 
it  goes  beneath  argument  and  speaks  to  the  last  wit- 
ness, the  soul. 

Bran  hauled  himself  from  one  spot  on  the  grass 
which  his  body  had  warmed  to  a  fresh  one,  or  he  stood 
and  lolled  at  her,  dribbling  from  a  pink  and  panting 
tongue.  About  four  o'clock  he  tore  down  to  the  hedge 
and  raced  barking  with  an  automobile  outside.  A 
car  that  sounded  like  a  big  one  purred  hotly  up  the 
road  and  stopped.  This  was  the  maids'  resting-time ; 
in  a  house  of  so  few  callers  no  one  was  kept  on  duty 
for  the  door.  Engracia  rose  and  shook  out  her  skirt. 
Bran  came  back  brazenly,  courting  applause  for  a 
well-known  misdemeanor.  The  new  arrival  had  gone 
inside  —  this  would  never  have  been  permitted  had 
not  Bran  recognized  a  friend.  She  went  slowly  back  to 
the  house  gathering  nerve,  sighing  from  excitement. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  office,  but  she  heard  steps  — 

315 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

In  the  darkened  sitting-room,  by  the  one  knife-blade 
of  light  from  the  garden  door  ajar,  stood  Gifford  Cor- 
nish. He  turned  with  a  slight  "Ah  1"  as  he  saw  her. 

Neither  spoke  at  first,  but  she  had  no  more  doubts, 
nor  could  there  be  any  question  of  why  he  had  come. 
It  seemed  more  natural  than  ever  to  see  him  there,  to 
meet  his  quaint,  depressed  smile,  to  have  him  release 
her  hand  properly  and  then  improperly  take  it  again 
and  look  deeply,  gravely  into  her  eyes.  He  may  have 
seen  there  a  promise  of  what  he  came  for ;  at  least 
he  could  speak  unhindered. 

"So  it  wasn't  you!  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  your 
mother  in  the  depot  at  Sacramento  ;  she  was  seeing 
two  ladies  off  by  the  Westbound.  They  were  veiled, 
but  one  was  about  your  height  —  and  in  tears  !  Your 
mother  kissed  her — twice — very  tenderly.  I  thought 
she  was  bidding  you  good-bye.  —  Then  my  train 
pulled  out.  —  I  found  the  house  empty  1  —  Are  you 
alone?" 

"  Tom  and  mother  will  be  home  to-night." 

"  Can  you  keep  me  till  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Then  I  will  send  my  car  away  —  "  He  hesitated : 
"You  won't  be  lost  when  I  come  back?"  But  when 
he  did  come,  she  had  vanished  —  to  advise  Annie 
of  a  guest  and  to  regulate  her  own  dress  a  little.  He 
awaited  her  with  a  worried  air :  his  impatience  of 
trifles  told  her  he  was  very  tired.  There  had  been  a 
long  strain  of  some  kind  —  a  multiplied  strain. 

"  Let  us  get  out  of  the  house  where  I  can  see  you. 
And  don't  let 's  have  any  interruptions." 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Not  for  something  cool  to  drink,  and  a  room  to 
put  your  bags?" 

"  I  had  those  things  in  Marysville.  Come,  come  1 " 

"  —  Tea  —  a  little  later  ?  We  have  an  « Annie.'  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  bother  me  with  your  Annies. 
It  is  a  whole  year —  and  I  've  been  sick:  —  no,  only 
sick  in  mind — chiefly  about  you.  At  any  time,  if  I 
had  had  the  courage — but  I  was  paralyzed.  Out 
here,  since  I  came,  I  have  been  busy.  I  was  afraid  to 
come  up  till  my  work  was  done,  and  perhaps  be 
paralyzed  again  —  How  should  I  know  how  you 
would  treat  me  ?  Where  shall  we  begin  ?  " 

"  Oh  — not  where  we  left  off !  Does  it  really  mat- 
ter?" 

"  One  or  two  little  things  matter,  because  we  both 
have  a  passion  for  the  perfect  thing  —  If  this  were 
true  !  How  can  we  make  sure  ?  " 

Engracia  did  not  speak,  but  their  eyes  met,  and  he 
seemed  satisfied.  It  was  not  to  question  nor  extenu- 
ate—  merely  to  restore  a  lost  and  blackened  year 
that  he  went  on.  "  I  had  an  extraordinary  visit  at 
Overleap  last  spring  when  I  went  there  to  see 
you  —  " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  look. 

"  —  To  see  you,"  he  repeated  :  "  to  ask  you  again 
to  marry  me,  openly  and  above  board,  as  I  thought 
it  quite  time  I  should.  —  You  knew  that  I  was  com- 
ing, didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  Engracia  uttered — pale  and  shivering. 

He  was  struck  by  the  evident  shock  this  memory 
gave  her.  "And  is  there  nothing  you  can  tell  me  — 

317 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

why  you  went  so  suddenly?  Because  I  have  never 
understood  what  happened." 

"You  must  not  ask  me!"  cried  Engracia.  "I 
hardly  know  myself  —  only  —  if  we  touch  it,  it  will 
ruin  us  somehow  1 " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  that  is  past.  But  listen :  I  found  that  she 
already  knew  of  my  first  proposal  and  was  hurt  as  a 
friend  that  I  had  not  confided  in  her  —  so  hurt  that 
she  had  written  to  reproach  me,  a  letter  that  she 
wished  to  recall.  She  asked  me,  when  I  received  it, 
to  return  it  unread,  which  I  did,  of  course  —  Now, 
dear,  what  is  the  matter?"  Looking  down  at  Engra- 
cia searchingly  he  met  the  shocked  amazement  in 
her  startled  eyes. 

"  How  —  did  she  say — she  came  to  know  of  your 
proposal  to  me  ?  " 

"  Did  n't  you,  quite  naturally,  speak  of  it  in  the 
course  of  your  winter's  intimacy?" 

"Intimacy!  Did  you  read  my  last  letter?  I  told 
you  distinctly  the  one  person  I  had  told  —  my  mother. 
If  you  thought  that,  you  must  have  believed  I  had 
lied  to  you  —  sneakingly,  pretending  to  keep  faith. 
Oh,  this  is  impossible!"  She  tore  her  hands  away 
from  his  that  had  taken  them  protectingly. 

"There  was  lying  without  doubt.  —  Darling,  I  only 
thought  it  when  I  was  wild  with  wretchedness  at  los- 
ing you.  I  went  with  hopes  —  I  did  n't  know  how 
strong  they  were  until  I  heard  your  words  —  " 

"My  words  ?  —  what  words  ?  " 

"  I  was  told  they  were  yours  :  did  you  not  say- 
when  driven  to  it  —  that  you  never  had,  never  should 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

care  for  me,  never  could  if  I  were  *  the  last  man  on 
earth '  ?  —  Poor  Lisa,  her  hour  has  come  !  " 

"  My  hour  has  come.  Yes,  they  were  my  words  — 
but  there  was  one  word  more :  now,  I  said ;  I  did  not 
want  you  now  —  Should  you  think  I  would  have 
wanted  you,  or  any  part  of  you,  after  that  past  — 
your  past  with  her  —  which  she  told  me  of?" 

"  Don't  you  see,  dear  child,  if  she  could  alter  the 
truth  so  about  one  of  us,  she  might  about  the  other? 
There  was  a  past  —  long  past.  And  she  knew  I  had 
never  sought  by  a  word  or  a  look  to  revive  it.  But 
her  mind  is  not  a  good  medium  for  the  truth  at 
best,  and  we  know  that  she  was  in  a  morbid  state. 
A  mind  that  appears  to  be  sane  and  yet  is  ungov- 
ernable is  very  dangerous  to  itself  and  to  others. 
Now  you  know  why  I  dreaded  your  going  there  — 
Well,  have  we  come  through  it  ?  —  have  I  come 
through  it?" 

"She  made  me  feel  rather  ill,"  said  Engracia.  "I 
lost  interest  in  you  and  I  rather  doubted  everything 
connected  with  you,  for  a  while." 

"We  have  lost  a  whole  year.  I  expected  trou- 
ble —  I  should  have  been  ready  for  it  —  especially  I 
should  have  known  you  better.  .  .  .  But  I  've  never 
had  a  little  friend  so  proud  —  so  foolish  —  as  this! 
Now,  will  you  put  your  hands  on  my  shoulders  and 
don't  look  down?" 

They  smiled  at  each  other  with  the  old  amused 
comradeship,  in  the  peace  of  a  faith  renewed  through 
this  first  trial  of  its  strength.  "  I  was  saying  those 
very  words  to  myself  —  this  afternoon  —  while  you 

319 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

were  coming  as  fast  as  you  could  —  and  I  never 
dreamed  it!" 

"And  I  was  saying  them  —  coming  as  fast  as  I 
could — and  afraid  it  was  too  late.  Thank  God  for 
one  misunderstanding  less  in  this  blind  world !  You 
will,  now,  won't  you  —  be  my  little  girl  —  forever  and 
ever  —  as  long  as  anything  lasts  ?  " 

"And  if  things  shouldn't  last,  would  you  be  sick 
of  me  again  ?  " 

"Was  I  ever  sick  of  you?  I  was  hope-sick  — 
homesick :  you  could  easily  cure  me  of  that.  It  is 
only  necessary  to  see  each  other  every  day ;  —  it 
must  be  very  soon,  the  beginning  of  the  cure ;  I  'm 
a  chronic,  you  know. "  He  knew  that  she  had  taken 
his  case  in  hand  for  life,  —  the  child  mind  he  had  fed 
and  helped  to  train,  the  beliefs  of  the  budding  woman 
he  had  found,  and  feared  to  trust  the  reckless  vision. 
Now,  to  explore  all  the  divinity  within,  if  God  would 
but  spare  them  time.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

MR.  AND  MRS.  LUDWELL  did  not  delay  for  any 
morning  train  —  they  were  in  Sacramento  themselves 
by  morning.  An  ambiguous  telegram  stating  that 
Clare  was  "  well,"  yet  imperative  as  to  meeting 
her  — !  They  came,  prepared  for  trouble  ;  and  Mrs. 
Lu dwell  had  a  sure  premonition  as  to  its  direction. 
She  had  been  vaguely  uneasy  about  the  combination 
at  Roadside,  but  absorbing  matters  awaited  them  on 
their  arrival  in  the  desolated  city,  and  her  labors  with 
the  ladies  of  Berkeley  in  behalf  of  others  in  trouble 
left  no  time  for  anxieties  of  her  own.  Her  husband's 
wrath  was  such  that  she  prevented  his  seeing  Dalby, 
and  conveyed  his  state  of  mind,  or  parts  of  it,  to  that 
unhappy  young  man,  expressed  in  her  own  words. 
She  sat  at  his  bedside  in  a  private  room  of  the  best 
hospital  in  the  city,  and  Mary  Gladwyn,  after  a  few 
moments,  left  them  to  themselves. 

Mrs.  Ludwell  had  known  Dalby  from  a  boy ;  she 
had  coached  him  in  children's  theatricals,  and  had 
"laughed  herself  sick"  when  as  Prince  Giglio in  long 
curls  he  had  used  the  warming-pan  with  such  un- 
bridled effect  on  King  Valoroso  in  a  papier-mache 
nose.  Why  should  she  think  of  such  silly  things 
now,  while  he  lay  there  who  had  spoiled  her  child's 
girlhood,  and  pierced  her  to  the  heart  of  her  own 
mother-pride. 

321 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Dalby,"  she  began,  "what  are  we  to  call  this?" 

He  turned  his  sick  eyes  upon  her  question  in 
silence. 

"  Mr.  Ludwell  has  had  it  put  in  the  papers  as  an 
automobile  accident.  You  will  remember  that  ?  " 

"  I  am — I  am  going  to  Overleap,  you  know  —  Do 
you  mean  I  am  to  call  it  that  to  Roberta?  " 

"  Certainly  1  That  is  our  demand  —  my  hus- 
band's— " 

"It  strikes  me  as  a  pretty  stiff  demand,"  said 
Dalby.  She  waited  for  him  to  finish  —  "I  may  have 
lied  now  and  then  when  it  seemed  necessary,  but  I 
am  not  in  the  habit  of  lying  this  way  —  with  an  end 
in  view  that  I  should  be  ashamed  of." 

"  I  don't  know  what  makes  lying  *  necessary.'  As 
for  what  young  men  are  ashamed  of  — !  But  here 
are  two  girls  to  be  protected.  One  can  be  touched 
only  in  her  pride  if  all  this  were  known;  the  other — 
I  ask  you  to  consider  what  Clare's  position  would 
have  been  if  the  cousins  had  not  followed  you  I  — 
not  to  speak  of  making  her  betray  her  friend.  This 
is  what  comes  of  involving  another  girl  before  you 
were  free." 

"  I  am  free  now  by  an  act  that  is  done  and  can't 
be  undone  —  " 

"It  is  undone,  and  it  must  be  forgotten.  Because 
if  it  is  acknowledged  Clare's  name  will  come  into  it." 

"  I  've  given  Roberta  a  blow  in  the  face  —  but  that 
is  n't  marrying  her  on  a  lie." 

"Your  blow  in  the  face  was  not  so  brave  as  it 
sounds :  I  should  call  it  a  blow  in  the  back.  The  pun- 

322 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ishment  of  cowardice  is  more  cowardice  —  Forgive 
me,  Dalby,"  —  she  softened  her  tones  which  had 
climbed  in  the  excitement  of  such  unwonted  speech, 
— "  but  Mr.  Ludwell  expects  you  to  give  us  your 
promise :  otherwise  —  the  alternative  I  should  be 
sorry  to  speak  of." 

"  Is  it  any  worse  than  this?"  Dalby  smiled  faintly. 

"It  would  be  more  public.  —  I  have  never  seen 
him  so  but  once  since  I  have  known  him  —  it  is  a 
touch  of  inheritance.  I  cannot  deal  with  it." 

Dalby  remained  silent,  thinking.  A  flush  had  risen 
in  his  face,  and  his  hands  on  the  bedclothes  twitched. 
Without  intending  to,  Mrs.  Ludwell  saw  Roberta's 
ring  still  on  his  left  hand.  He  saw  that  she  saw  it  and 
slipped  the  hand  out  of  sight,  then  tossed  it  forth 
again. 

"Would  you  have  married  Clare  in  that  ring?" 
she  asked,  merciless  in  trifles. 

"  I  should  n't  have  thought  it  important  if  I  had," 
he  replied  sullenly. 

"  Dalby,  what  is  important  to  you  ?  What  do  you 
believe  in  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it's  important  to  marry  the  girl  you  love 
—  if  you  can." 

"  Not  if  you  have  to  steal  her  and  break  your  word 
to  another  woman  who  is  helpless  because  she  is  a 
lady  !  No  ;  you  can  never  have  Clare  now,  with  her 
father's  consent  —  and  she  will  never  do  this  again." 

"  I  give  you  my  promise  — to  lie  to  the  best  of  my 
ability  —  and  I  hope  the  doctors  will  finish  me  the 
next  time." 

323 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Mrs.  Ludwell  sat  a  moment  feeling  unreasonably 
in  the  wrong.  Then  she  said,  rising  and  softly  rest- 
ing one  hand  on  his  pillow :  "  Your  promise  will  save 
a  young  girl  whom  you  led  into  wrongdoing — nei- 
ther of  you  knowing  how  wrong  you  were.  Now, 
may  I  say  one  thing  more  —  though  it  is  none  of  my 
business  ?  Roberta  is  a  lonely  girl :  she  has  no  ad- 
visers—  she  doesn't  need  them.  You  have  saved 
Clare — trust  her  to  save  you,  and  herself." 

"  Trust  her  while  I  deceive  her ! " 

"  That,  you  see,  is  your  punishment  —  don't  you 
see?" 

"  I  see  it 's  punishment,"  said  Dalby. 

Mrs.  Ludwell  went  away,  having  accomplished 
what  she  came  for  primarily,  but  dissatisfied  with  the 
manner  in  which  it  had  been  done.  Teasing  thoughts 
of  points  she  might  have  made  pursued  her ;  for  in- 
stance, she  might  have  answered  Dalby's  "while  I 
deceive  her  "  with  the  simple  reminder  that  a  young 
man  can  free  himself  from  an  engagement  which  he 
considers  dishonorable  without  going  into  details  of 
his  conduct  involving  another  —  that  of  course  he 
would  see  for  himself,  when  he  was  ready  to.  On  the 
whole,  she  discharged  her  conscience  of  Dalby's  re- 
sponsibilities ;  but  as  between  Clare,  whose  name  had 
escaped  public  comment,  and  her  own  mother  in  pri- 
vate, there  remained  a  few  words  to  be  said,  and  Mrs. 
Ludwell  made  them  very  plain.  Clare  must  be  in- 
formed, in  the  first  place,  of  Dalby's  promise,  which 
she  regarded  as  a  shameful  backdown:  it  was  not 
his  fault  they  were  beaten,  but  to  stay  beaten  —  to 

324 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

be  driven  into  a  corner  and  consent  to  an  unmanly 
deceit  like  that !  She  listened  with  scarlet  cheeks  and 
distant,  angry  eyes  fixed  on  the  wall-paper  of  their 
hotel  sitting-room. 

"  If  I  were  Roberta  I  would  kill  Dalby  if  he  dared 
to  marry  me  now  and  say  nothing  1  But  I  suppose  / 
can't  speak  and  save  her  as  she  ought  to  be  saved ! " 

"  There  are  certain  plain  obligations  in  life,"  said  her 
mother  coldly :  "  if  Dalby  had  not  been  thinking  like 
a  scoundrel,  his  conduct  would  not  have  broken 
down  all  at  once.  He  thought  of  nothing  but  his  own 
happiness  —  which  he  threw  away  in  the  first  place 
for  a  wretched  dinner.  And  there  is  his  father:  — 
such  news  as  this  in  his  state  of  health  might  kill  him 
outright.  To  cap  the  climax"  —  Mrs.  Ludwell  aban- 
doned argument  for  certain  details  which  she  well 
knew  would  sting  —  "I  happen  to  know  that  he  has 
not  paid  his  nurse  who  borrows  money  to  come  down 
here  to  nurse  him  again  1  —  the  girl  who  stood  by  him 
and  lost  even  her  clothes." 

Clare  was  cut  to  the  quick.  "  What  has  he  got  to 
pay  with  except  borrowed  money  or  checks  on  banks 
that  are  burned  ?  Who  was  so  mean  as  to  tell  you 
that?" 

"  Nobody  is  mean,  but  older  people  may  comment 
on  the  little  ironies  of  youthful  romance  —  a  young 
man  who  cannot  pay  his  nurse,  buying  five-thousand- 
dollar  cars  to  run  off  with,  and  able  to  finance  this 
trip  with  you." 

"  It  was  only  second-hand,  and  it  was  n't  paid  for ! " 
Clare  retorted  wildly.  Every  point  in  these  horrid 

325 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

accusations  bewildered  her  the  more,  and  she  dashed 
herself  against  one  after  another  like  a  trapped  bird. 

" — Charged  to  his  father,  I  suppose — or  to  your 
father?" 

"  Mother,  how  can  you  be  so  small  1  We  had  n't  a 
hundred  dollars  between  us.  We  were  only  going  to 
Emigrant  Gap."  Clare  scored  now  by  sheer  simplic- 
ity and  childish  lack  of  humor. 

"  Emigrant  Gap  ! " 

"  Dalby  has  a  log  cabin  down  on  the  Lake  —  with 
a  stone  fireplace.  We  were  to  cook  for  ourselves  and 
eat  off  tin  plates  and  wear  old  hunting-togs.  He  did 
think  of  his  father.  He  knows  how  arguments  and 
talk  excite  him ;  he  thought  the  quickest  way  was 
best  —  for  him  and  everybody.  If  he  is  a  scoundrel 
and  a  cad  I  don't  see  why  everybody  adores  him ! 
The  men  up  there  would  do  anything  for  him  —  they 
would  have  helped  us  with  horses,  anything  they 
had.  .  .  .  Mother,  you  asked  me  once  to  be  gentle 
with  him  —  do  you  want  me  to  throw  him  down  now, 
when  he  is  down  ?  If  it 's  a  crime  to  love  me,  he  is 
guilty,  of  course, — he  says  he  never  would  have  got 
engaged  if  I  had  n't  been  so  hard  to  him ;  and  he  has 
changed  all  his  habits  for  my  sake." 

"  He  tells  you  so  —  perhaps  he  believes  it  himself." 

"  Roberta  does  not  love  him  —  I  do.  I  know  it  now. 
You  and  father  can  part  us  —  he  can  be  a  coward 
and  marry  Roberta ;  but  he  is  the  only  one  for  me 
and  I  am  the  only  one  for  him,  if  you  think  that 
means  anything.  You  did  when  it  was  you  and 
father." 

326 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  And  your  father/'  said  Anna  solemnly,  "  thinks 
he  deserves  to  be  shot !  He  thinks  the  crowning 
shame  is  Roberta's  loneliness :  —  not  a  man  of  her 
blood  who  could  take  this  up  when  Dalby  is  strong 
enough  to  give  an  account  of  himself." 

"  Mother,  do  you  dare  call  Dalby  that  kind  of  cow- 
ard ?  You  are  perfectly  mad  about  this.  Who  fights 
duels  over  a  broken  engagement  ?" 

"  Who,  indeed  !  Is  there  anything  you  don't  break 
with  the  most  flippant  impunity  ?  —  anything  under 
heaven  you  call  an  obligation  if  it  goes  against  your 
wishes?  If  the  two  are  married,  divorce  settles  it; 
if  it's  breach  of  promise,  money  in  private  or  a 
lawsuit.  Women  like  Roberta  have  to  sit  and  bear 
the  insult ;  and  if  they  are  rich,  no  one  even  pities 
them." 

"  Roberta  knew  perfectly  well  what  she  was  doing. 
Dalby  never  denied  to  her  —  he  told  me  so  —  that  he 
loved  me  still.  Dalby  does  not  lie." 

"  There  will  be  lying  now,  and  whoever  does  it,  he 
will  be  responsible.  This  performance  is  an  automo- 
bile accident  —  remember ;  that  is  all  his  father  and 
Roberta  will  ever  know  about  it.  They  came  home 
yesterday,  and  she  expects  him  at  Overleap  to  get 
strong  for  his  next  operation." 

"  I  thought  they  were  not  coming  till  next  week  ?  " 

"  They  heard  of  his  illness  in  New  York  and  hur- 
ried out  here.  Papa  talked  with  them  a  few  minutes 
yesterday.  Mr.  Morton,  of  course,  thinks  everything 
is  all  the  same ;  he  was  in  great  spirits  about  the 
wedding.  —  Squalid,  all  of  it!  To  think  that  our 

327 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

daughter,  our  little  Clare,  should  be  dragged  into 
anything  like  this ! " 

There  was  weeping  now  and  a  mother's  forgiveness 
ready  at  the  first  sign  of  softening.  Dalby's  mother 
could  not  reach  him  with  her  tears.  Yet  she  may  have 
helped  him  when  he  did  not  know  —  Mary  Gladwyn, 
looking  at  her  patient  after  he  slept  that  night, 
thought  how  pure  and  peaceful  a  man's  face  it  was, 
and  how  young  he  looked.  Nothing  wrong  with  him 
at  all,  she  would  have  said,  but  so  badly  brought  up. 

It  was  more  than  hot  —  it  was  stifling  that  Mon- 
day in  Sacramento.  Hurrying  down  to  the  hospital 
after  four  o'clock,  Tom  saw  women  with  pale  faces 
wheeling  slightly  clad  babies  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  cooler  streets,  young  girls  hatless,  in  high-heeled 
pumps,  with  large  structures  of  ribbon  on  their 
heads,  urchins  sucking  ice-cream  cornucopias,  horses 
in  straw  hats,  spray  from  jogging  water-carts  —  all 
the  sights  of  midsummer  in  the  State  Capital,  here 
in  May. 

In  the  hospital,  nurses  with  aching  feet  fanned 
their  patients  by  the  hour.  Mary  stood  near  the  ele- 
vator-shaft waiting  for  a  pail  of  ice.  Suddenly,  as  the 
cage  stopped,  out  stepped  Tom.  She  looked  at  him 
with  a  pucker  in  her  forehead ;  he  had  never  seen 
her  when  she  was  quite  to  the  same  extent  on  duty. 
He  picked  up  her  pail  and  they  walked  down  the 
corridor  together. 

"  Can  you  see  me  a  few  minutes  ?  " 

"Well  —  not  just  this  minute:  after  the  doctors 
328 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

are   gone.    They  have  n't   finished  their  examina- 
tion." 

"  We  are  starting  home  in  about  an  hour." 

She  remained  unmoved.  "  I  am  sorry  I  could  not 
see  your  mother  again.  Engracia  must  give  her  my 
real  good-byes. — Too  bad  it's  such  a  day,  but  you 
won't  feel  it  when  you  get  in  motion." 

"  Mother  will  be  sorry,  too,  but  of  course  she  un- 
derstands. I  did  not  ask  her  to  come — I  had  to  see 
you  alone.  Will  it  bother  to  have  me  talk  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  because  I  can't  let  you  —  After  the  doctors 
have  gone.  This  is  the  door  —  thanks  1 " 

"Where  shall  I  wait?"  Tom  persisted. 

"  Here,  if  you  have  time ;  I  may  be  twenty  min- 
utes." 

The  doctors  came  at  length  and  talked  a  few  mo- 
ments to  Mary  outside  the  patient's  door.  She  did 
not  appear  to  see  Tom  till  they  were  shut  into  the 
elevator.  Tom  stepped  forward  and  this  time  she 
smiled  and  her  forehead  cleared:  "They  are  quite 
positive  he  will  get  through  all  right,"  she  said.  A 
window  was  open  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  noisy 
with  sounds  from  the  street ;  they  went  there,  and 
Mary  perched  on  the  sill  —  every  moment  off  your 
feet  counted  in  the  day's  work. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  what  was  in  that  letter  you 
brought  me :  it  is  the  greatest  letter  I  've  ever  had 
in  my  life.  I  am  going  back  with  you,  Mary." 

"How  does  that  happen?"  asked  Mary,  trying 
not  to  look  conscious.  She  slipped  down  off  the  sill 
and  stood  gazing  steadily  into  the  street  below. 

329 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Wiju  is  starting  up  again  with  English  capital. 
Mr.  Bruce  is  managing  director.  He  offers  me  the 
whole  thing  —  resident  superintendent  and  chief 
engineer.  I  know,  of  course,  where  it  comes  from, 
but  I  shall  take  it ;  and  you  will  help  me  to  make 
good  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say ! "  said  Mary ;  "  am  I  to  nurse  your 
young  rice  plants  or — " 

"  You  will  give  a  man  his  home.  There  is  a  little 
valley  up  between  the  hills  —  we'll  build  a  house 
there  —  " 

Mary  stood  in  silence  ;  she  sought  for  a  handker- 
chief and  wiped  her  pale,  unpowdered  forehead. 
"  Have  you  told  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Not  yet ;  she  has  enough  on  her  mind." 

Mary  thought  of  Engracia's  stricken  look  and  her 
dreaded  sum  in  division  — 

"How  will  this  be  for  them  —  your  family,  Tom? 
Mothers  and  sisters  can't  be  left  out." 

"  It  will  be  the  saving  of  everything  for  them.  I 
happen  to  know  of  changes  coming;  it  can't  be 
spoken  of,  but  it  would  hurt  my  mother  to  see  me 
undoing  father's  work.  All  that  he  did  will  go  for 
nothing,  so  far  as  it  was  done  in  preparation  for 
something  bigger.  That  can  never  be  —  in  our  time. 
I  could  stay  on  and  do  pretty  well  as  to  salary,  but 
all  the  fun  is  out  of  it  —  And  —  I  may  say  it  now 
—  Wiju  was  my  dream.  It  hurt  to  go  and  leave  it. 
But  to  go  back  with  you ! " 

"  —  And  them,"  said  Mary. 

"  Not  necessarily.  Them  if  they  will  come,  but  I 
330 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

don't  see  it  that  way.  I  know  my  mother  pretty  well. 
Are  n't  you  homesick  ?  —  the  Bruces'  garden  —  do 
you  remember  that  night  when  you  sent  me  home  ? 
You  owe  me  this  journey,  you  do  ! " 

"  Please  stop  now,  Tom  ;  you  confuse  me.  This  is 
a  hospital  for  the  sick,  not  the  insane." 

"  But  we  '11  build  that  house  together — " 

"  We  won't  do  anything  till  we  see  about  them. 
So  few  families  have  that  intense  home-life  that  yours 
has.  It  will  cost  —  oh,  it  will  cost  like  everything." 

"  You  don't  know  my  mother  :  she  has  drilled  her- 
self to  face  partings.  If  it  means  my  work,  and  good 
work,  she  will  be  proud  to  have  me  go.  But  she  may 
not  go  herself ;  a  son  is  not  a  husband.  But  whether 
we  make  one  family  or  two,  I  can  take  far  better 
care  of  them.  Your  English  pay  their  engineers." 

"  I  shall  not  know  what  I  am  doing  the  rest  of  this 
day —  "Mary  sighed  distractedly.  "I  knew  there 
was  a  stroke  of  fate  in  that  letter,  but  this  is  absurd  I 
Nothing  can  be  done  as  soon  as  this." 

"  *  Long  engagements  are  wearing  —  and  weaken- 
ing-'" 

"  Yes  ;  but  go  now  —  my  patient  is  alone." 

"Will  he  need  you  at  Overleap?" 

"  Not  after  he  gets  there  ;  it  is  a  house  of  servants, 
and  a  good  local  doctor.  —  They  are  going  to  hush 
this  all  up,"  she  whispered.  "I  am  very  sorry  for 
him :  there  are  so  many  ways  of  being  a  fool  —  " 

"  There  are  ways  of  being  wise  as  bad  as  any  folly 
I  know.  Would  it  be  a  very  great  shock  to  your 
mother  if  — " 

331 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  It  would ;  and  I  shall  not  shock  her  that  way  — 
by  cable." 

"  I  could  take  so  much  better  care  of  you  on  the 
boat,  you  know.  And  some  people  might  think  it 
looked  better—" 

Mary  smiled  at  him  pityingly :  "  Nurses,  of  course, 
are  chaperoned  everywhere  they  go! — As  for  looks, 
there  won't  be  anything  the  matter  with  my  be- 
havior." 

"That  is  what  I  am  afraid  of,"  said  Tom. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

MR.  MORTON  had  come  to  that  stage  in  the  chronic 
disorder  he  called  life  when  old  friends  shook  their 
heads  in  speaking  of  him,  and  old  foes  no  longer 
feared  him  enough  to  abuse  him  behind  his  back. 
His  rages  hurt  no  one  now ;  in  business  his  mind  was 
asleep  or  woke  to  tragic  folly.  He  arrived  with  Ro- 
berta, carefully  watched  by  a  man-nurse  whom  he 
treated  as  a  child  and  who  treated  him  like  another 
more  difficult  child.  Except  to  go  up  to  Overleap 
where  his  son  was  now  installed,  he  refused  to  leave 
the  city  even  for  a  day.  The  conditions  since  the  fire 
excited  him,  and  for  a  time  he  seemed  actually  better ; 
less  pale  and  shrunken  and  anxious-eyed.  He  gave 
orders  that  his  table  should  be  spread  from  morning 
to  night  and  gathered  as  many  of  the  Pacific  Union 
and  other  good  fellows  with  no  club-roof  over  their 
heads  as  he  could  persuade  to  sit  down  with  him. 
They  listened  daily  to  the  story  of  his  son's  behavior 
in  the  fire,  and  to  his  brag  that  the  boy  had  been  run- 
ning his  own  six-cylinder  over  country  roads  before 
the  stitches  were  out  of  his  wound.  They  believed 
what  they  chose  and  humored  the  rest  with  the  char- 
ity of  guests  at  a  well-found  table. 

"Where  has  he  kept  himself  all  this  time?"  asked 
an  old  friend  of  the  family.  "I  tried  to  find  him  — 
we  wanted  him  up  at  our  place." 

333 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Mr.  Morton  rapidly  and  with  some  accidents  con- 
sumed his  soup.  —  "  Place  up  the  valley — can't  think 
of  the  name  —  cousins  of  Tom  LudwelPs  —  worst 
roads  you  ever  saw ;  knocking  forty  miles  an  hour 
out  of  a  new  machine  —  chip  of  the  old  block ;  I  was 
just  such  another  at  his  age.  Now  he  goes  under  the 
doctors'  hands  again.  Wedding  put  off :  —  saying  is, 
bad  luck  put  off  a  wedding-day.  Don't  you  believe 
it !  Boy  who  gets  Bobbie  Sands  has  got  luck  to  burn. 

—  Old  Bob  Sands's  daughter,  eh  ?    Know  what  that 
girl  is  worth?" 

Bobbie  Sands  was  thinking  pretty  hard  about  her 
own  luck  these  days.  The  servants'  table  heard  it 
from  the  butler,  who  had  it  straight  from  talk  in  the 
dining-room,  that  the  wedding  was  all  off  again,  Mr. 
Dalby  Morton  having  been  in  an  auto  accident,  and 
to  be  operated  on  soon  and  coming  down  there  to  get 
strong  for  it.  —  "  So  all  your  fine  fixin's  go  for  nothin' " 

—  to  Katy  the  cook.  "  You  'd  better  be  getting  mar- 
ried yourself,  the  way  the  whole  of  it  would  n't  be 
goin'  back  on  you." 

Maggie  Wittle,  of  the  still  tongue,  preserved  her 
character  before  "all  that  crowd,"  but  she  went  to 
the  housekeeper,  who  had  been  nursemaid  to  the  little 
Roberta  and  had  seen  her  young  lady  grow  up  —  far 
from  handsome,  but  so  kind  and  comical-like,  —  and 
to  her  Maggie  told  her  tale,  having  some  ideas  of  her 
own  as  to  personal  accountability.  Mrs.  Duffy  praised 
both  her  discretion  and  her  frankness  and  asked  to 
keep  for  a  few  days  the  two  letters  from  Roadside 
which  Maggie  had  brought  in  evidence.  Next  morn- 

334 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

ing-  she  stayed  unusually  long  upstairs  consulting  her 
mistress,  who  looked  slightly  heated  when  her  maid 
came  in  to  do  her  hair.  But  she  sat  as  usual  with  a 
book  before  her  mirror,  taking  no  interest,  as  her  way 
was — to  be  sure,  it  was  nothing  very  pleasant  she 
would  see  there,  poor  thing,  and  she  going  to  marry 
such  a  handsome  young  gentleman  and  the  greatest 
flirt  in  the  city. 

Dalby,  never  clever  at  a  pose,  had  a  good  excuse 
now  for  languor  which  he  did  not  hide,  and  for  silence 
amidst  devoted  attention,  with  the  entire  household 
at  his  feet.  Not  Roberta,  however, — that  had  never 
been  her  way  with  him.  She  had  always  read  him 
like  a  book,  and  the  context  which  her  inside  knowl- 
edge supplied  was  hardly  needed  now ;  only  it  made 
her  a  little  more  sure.  He  lay  one  afternoon  stretched 
on  a  couch  in  the  sun-striped  corridor,  and  saw  her 
coming  glowering  at  him  kindly  from  under  her  big 
white  hat.  She  was  all  in  white  of  delicate  fabrics  and 
costly  needlework,  and  her  sea-browned  face  looked 
dark  and  harsh  by  contrast.  There  was  another  con- 
trast in  the  sick  and  faithless  mind  of  her  listener. 
She  had  brought  a  new  magazine  and  sat  down  to 
share  it — reading  aloud  often  took  the  place  of  words 
between  them.  Presently  she  put  it  down. 

"Do  I  tease  you,  Dalby?  Your  mind  seems  to 
wander.  Feeling  pretty  rotten  most  of  the  time?" 

"Rather,"  said  Dalby. 

"Any  special  spot  the  doctors  haven't  reached 
yet?" 

"  I  fancy  they  will  have  some  trouble  to  reach  it" 
335 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"Well,  don't  despond :  we  are  n't  going1  to  be  in  a 
hurry. — You  couldn't  trust  your  old  Bobbie  ?  I  know 
you  don't  fuss  about  your  health  much ;  your  father 
hasn't  lost  his  all  in  the  fire  —  it  wouldn't  hurt  you 
if  he  had.  Is  it  putting  off  the  wedding  that  plunges 
you  in  gloom?" 

Dalby  racked  around  on  his  couch  in  silence,  while 
she  studied  him.  "  There  was  no  rush  order  on  that 
contract,"  he  began  huskily;  "you  took  it  coolly — I 
shall  try  to  do  the  same.  You  know,  Bobbie,  I  'm  not 
going  to  be  up  to  much  for  a  good  while,  after  the 
doctors  are  done  with  me  this  time :  you  don't  want  a 
sick  bridegroom  on  your  hands,  unless  he 's  bright 
enough  to  make  up  —  " 

"But  you  used  to  be  bright!  We  used  to  have 
good,  straight  talks  —  now  no  more !  Can't  you  trust 
me,  son?" 

Dalby 's  miserable  face  grew  fiery  red  under  her 
smile  of  intelligent  sarcasm. 

"  '  Son  P  "  he  repeated.  "  I  know  I  am  not  in  your 
class,  Bobbie,  as  to  books  and.all  that — and  you  don't 
feel  that  I  am :  honest  to  God,  are  n't  you  taking  me 
half  out  of  pity?" 

"  Marrying  is  a  desperate  business,  any  way  you 
look  at  it,"  said  Bobbie.  "  Might  do  worse  than  marry 
out  of  pity  —  only,  it 's  just  as  well  to  know  what  we 
pity  each  other  for.  Blundering  pity  might  be  as  ob- 
noxious as  blundering  —  friendship  trying  to  pose  as 
love.  How  is  that?" 

Here  was  his  opening  if  he  would  but  take  it.  Her 
last  wish  for  Dalby  in  this  fading  proposition  centered 

336 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

solely  on  the  manhood  she  hoped  to  see  in  him  be- 
fore they  said  good-bye.  She  had  kept  back  her  own 
knowledge  of  what  those  Roadside  letters  told,  that 
he  might  have  every  chance  to  tell  her  himself,  as 
she  fully  believed  he  would  when  the  strength  for  it 
came  to  him.  Was  it  coming  now? 

"  Bobbie,"  he  sighed  hoarsely ;  "  we  've  known  each 
other  ever  since  we  both  of  us  were  knee-high,  and  I 
never  saw  a  streak  of  yellow  in  you. —  You  would  n't 
fool  me  now  —  fool  me  for  life?  If  you  really  want 
me  —  say  so,  so  a  man  can  believe  it.  The  pride  has 
gone  out  of  me :  God  knows  why  any  woman  should 
want  me!" 

Roberta's  face  became  crimson  (it  was  not  becom- 
ing ;  alas  1  that  Dalby  should  see  even  that,  at  such  a 
cruel  moment).  "  We  have  never  talked  about  love, 
if  you  remember;  but  —  is  there  any  reason  other  than 
your  health  why  I  should  not  want  you  —  on  our  first 
understanding  ?  You  know  what  it  was  ?  " 

Dalby  fingered  the  rope  of  the  awning.  —  No ;  it 
was  n't  coming,  after  all :  the  truth  had  crept  out  only 
to  slink  back  again.  He  was  playing  the  old  trick  — 
making  her  break  her  word  to  him  to  save  confess- 
ing that  his  had  already  been  broken.  "  It 's  up  to 
you,  Bobbie :  take  me  or  leave  me.  You  know  I  'd 
shoot  myself  sooner  than  smear  your  pride." 

"  Is  that  how  you  look  at  it  ?  "  said  Roberta  sitting 
up  and  speaking  in  a  hard  voice.  "  I  had  no  idea  you 
were  taking  care  of  my  pride.  Just  how  would  you 
go  to  work  now,  to  *  smear '  it,  as  you  say  ?  " 

Dalby  looked  at  her,  flushed,  harassed  —  longing 
337 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

to  appeal  to  that  mother-strength  in  her  nature,  which 
at  times  he  had  found  almost  enough  for  peace  of 
mind,  if  not  happiness.  But  wild  excesses  of  fancy 
had  of  late  shaken  his  hold  on  even  that  slight  root 
of  self-respect. 

"  You  might,  just  as  a  case  in  point,"  Roberta  went 
on  coolly,  "  hypothecate  your  vows  to  me  and  run  off 
with  a  handsomer  girl :  that  is  supposed  to  *  smear* 
a  woman's  pride  till  people  are  good  enough  to 
forget  it.  But,  you  see,  I  look  at  it  differently.  As 
a  brutal  fact,  a  wretch  with  my  alleged  millions  sel- 
dom gets  told  the  truth,  which  she  might  possibly 
be  trusted  to  know.  I  'm  a  bitter  person  and  you've 
nothing  to  do  with  thaf  side  of  me.  Only,  look  out 
when  you  try  to  save  my  pride:  I  've  a  notion  I  can 
take  care  of  that  myself.  There  is  no  occasion,  you 
see,  for  sacrifices  between  us — never  was,  you  know." 

"You  are  a  wonderful  brick,  Bobbie:  I  should 
rather  enjoy  being  miserable  in  your  company." 

"  Oh,  you  are  all  right,  when  you  don't  try  to  pay 
compliments.  But  why  be  miserable — why  even  stick 
to  each  other's  company  ?  Don't  you  begin  to  catch 
the  drift  of  my  remarks  ?  It  was  understood  at  the 
start  that  you  could  n't  marry  the  girl  you  wanted, 
and  I  'd  never  seen  the  man  I  wanted,  and  time  was 
passing  for  us  both.  We  thought  we  might  make  up 
to  each  other  for  some  of  the  things  we  were  likely 
to  miss  if  we  sulked  along  single  —  Now,  if  one  of  us 
should  find  that  he,  or  she,  had  given  up  the  greater 
thing  too  soon,  ought  n't  there  to  be  a  fresh  report 
on  the  project? 

338 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Listen,  now :  Clare  Ludwell  has  come  home,  after 
all  her  triumphs,  not  even  engaged.  Is  there  nothing 
in  that  to  your  advantage?  Why  don't  you  take  heart 
and  try  again  ?  Clare  gave  you  a  lesson,  and  I  can 
vouch  it  did  you  good ;  but  the  treatment  can  be 
carried  too  far.  And  personally  I  object  to  being 
taken  as  medicine  —  beyond  a  certain  point.  I  think 
we've  reached  that  point/'  Roberta  rose  and  ex- 
tracted her  fingers  from  Dalby's  rather  hysterical 
clasp.  "Now,  lie  still  and  think  about  it!  As  to  that 
Red  Wine  —  I  'm  not  metaphorical :  you  can't  fight 
that  nonsense  with  Clare  ;  so  don't  you  fall  back !  She 
would  never  stand  your  nerve-racking  failures." 
"  How  often  have  I  failed,  with  you  ?  " 
"Not  often  —  in  that  way."  She  left  him  —  to 
think  about  it.  He  did  not  spend  much  thought  over 
her  last  words  for  he  seldom  expected  to  read  all  her 
odd  quirks  and  meanings.  She  straightened  her  big 
hat  over  her  eyes  and  went  away  smiling. 

Mary  did  not  prove  as  obdurate  as  she  had  fully 
intended  to  be.  Her  happiness,  though  sudden,  could 
only  mean  happiness  to  her  mother,  who,  like  most 
mothers,  strange  to  say,  believed  in  marriage,  and 
who  had  always  believed  in  Mr.  T.  L.  Scarth.  And 
so  there  was  a  brief  but  weighty  exchange  of  cable- 
grams, followed  by  a  quiet  wedding  at  Roadside,  and 
Tom  and  Mary  pass  out  of  this  tale  down  the  Marys- 
ville  road  in  Tom's  little  car,  not  even  repainted  for  the 
occasion.  Tom  left  it  at  Sacramento  to  be  sent  back 
for  his  successor,  Cousin  Tom's  next  nominee ;  and 

339 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Cousin  Tom  did  ride  in  it,  probably,  all  over  the  Tract, 
when  he  came  up  there  to  lay  out  his  future  plans. 

For  the  sake  of  local  color,  I  wish  it  could  be  said 
that  Mary  went  away  in  a  "  refugee  suit "  from  Ra- 
phael WeilPs  (whose  generosity  at  this  time  the  city 
will  never  forget),  but  it  was  not  so,  for  Dalby  did  not 
leave  his  pecuniary  obligations  to  his  father  to  settle. 

What  poor  Mr.  Morton  would  or  would  not  do  in 
business  now  it  was  increasingly  difficult  to  count 
on — except  that  it  was  sure  to  be  wrong.  Friends  of 
the  family  warned  Dalby  that  the  sharpers  were  get- 
ting hold  of  the  old  man.  With  a  very  little  trouble,  he 
was  told,  the  necessary  steps  could  be  taken  to  prove 
his  father's  "  mental  incompetence."  Dalby  took  no 
steps.  He  said,  as  long  as  he  was  the  only  one  to 
be  considered,  his  father  should  do  as  he  pleased 
with  the  fortune  he  had  made.  Every  one  called  this 
quixotic ;  but  Dalby  seemed  indifferent  to  the  sym- 
pathy bestowed  on  his  fading  patrimony.  He  declined 
to  remind  his  father  that  he  was  dead  while  he  was 
still  alive  to  hear  news  of  it.  The  old  man  had  be- 
come very  gentle  and  wistful,  and  enjoyed  his  son's 
visits  to  the  rooms  where  he  lived  chiefly  in  the  com- 
pany of  nurses — though  he  did  not  always  know  who 
the  nice  young  fellow  was  who  paid  him  so  much 
attention.  He  had  a  great  many  brave  stories  to  tell 
Dalby  of  himself,  the  son  who  was  always  present  in 
some  dream  of  that  vague  twilight  in  which  he  was 
passing  away; — as  we  may  pass  ourselves,  leaving 
time  to  restore  the  best  of  us  in  the  memories  of 
those  we  leave  behind. 


PART  V 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

TOM'S  successor  was  on  the  ground  to  close  up  the 
" romantic "  and  open  the  " commercial"  period,  in 
the  affairs  of  the  Torres  Tract.  The  women  saw  him 
plying  up  and  down  in  Tom's  little  car  and  wondered 
why  they  had  no  pangs.  It  is  to  be  feared  their  hearts 
were  in  the  fate  of  the  Tract  chiefly  through  the  men 
of  their  hearts.  Personally,  their  interest  in  the  new 
manager  centered  in  the  question,  Would  he  be  a  good 
master  to  Bran  ?  The  two  were  introduced  at  a  din- 
ner largely  planned  for  the  purpose.  Bran  had  been 
washed  and  brushed  for  the  occasion  until  he  looked 
and  felt  like  white  silk  plush,  but  his  conduct  left  much 
to  be  desired.  He  was  far  too  restless  and  suspicious 
of  a  change,  which  his  dumb  intuition  warned  him  of, 
to  make  the  best  impression  on  a  stranger.  The  new 
master  of  Roadside,  however,  was  a  dog-man :  none 
of  Bran's  points,  not  even  his  fore-knowledge,  were 
wasted.  So  the  last  pang,  a  very  keen  one,  was  at 
least  assuaged. 

Their  guest  showed  himself  a  genial  person ;  he 
took  all  things  into  consideration  in  the  self-satisfied, 
moderate  fashion  of  a  successful  business  man.  He 
took  them  into  consideration,  too,  —  by  special  orders 
from  Mr.  Ludwell,  but  it  came  more  gracefully  as  if 
at  first-hand.  Torresville  would  be  his  headquarters 
for  the  present,  he  said ;  —  very  little  doing  just  now, 
they  understood.  He  begged  them  to  remain  in  resi- 

343 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

dence  at  the  company  house  for  as  long  as  it  suited 
their  convenience. 

So  the  packing  went  forward  without  haste,  yet 
not  without  exhaustion,  spiritual  as  well  as  physical. 
They  were  two  worn  and  weary  women  —  though  one 
was  very  happy  —  when  they  turned  their  faces  east- 
ward near  the  close  of  September. 

Olivia,  sensitive  and  worn  herself,  trembled  like  a 
leaf  when  she  saw  Caroline  (who  she  had  thought 
was  young !)  come  up  the  front  steps.  She  arrived 
without  husband  or  son  —  the  men  for  whose  sake 
women  go  West  and  stay  for  years  and  return  with 
signs  of  wear  and  tear  upon  them,  or  fine  and  flour- 
ishing, to  be  comforted  by  their  relatives  or  silently 
measured  by  them ;  —  and  the  slender  girl  at  her  side, 
a  little  taller  and  straighter  than  her  mother,  would 
be  leaving  her  very  soon.  The  older  women  embraced 
with  that  understanding  which  passeth  words.  Olivia 
had  lost  her  young  lover  in  1864.  He  had  left  Har- 
vard to  volunteer  and  had  been  in  fifty  battles  before 
he  gave  his  life  to  his  country  in  the  last  battle  of  the 
war.  She  was  scarcely  nineteen,  but  she  accepted  no 
substitute  for  what  counted  with  her  for  the  summit 
of  experience—  though  many  were  offered  her  before 
youth  and  beauty  waned.  Therefore  she  was  entitled 
to  be  keen-sighted  and  critical  of  all  makeshifts  and 
travesties  which  passed  for  happiness  in  the  lives  of 
her  young  kinsfolk  growing  up  around  her,  espe- 
cially the  girls. 

In  their  first  free  talk  about  the  engagement,  Caro- 
line mentioned  the  age  of  Engracia's  lover.  Cousin 

344 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Olivia  (who  was  past  sixty)  gasped  in  dismay.  "  A 
man  of  forty!  —  and  Engracia  —  twenty-one.  My 
dear  Caroline  I " 

Caroline  said  little  in  defense  of  her  daughter's 
choice :  they  would  all  "  see "  at  the  wedding.  She 
had  a  subtle  confidence  that  Cornish  on  that  occasion 
would  bear  himself  in  a  manner  to  satisfy  the  most 
hypercritical ;  even  Olivia  who  was  so  exacting  about 
the  family  bridegrooms. 

Olivia  was  more  exacting  in  the  case  of  Engracia 
than  any  of  the  daughters  the  new  generation  had 
reared.  It  is  difficult  to  say  why,  unless  in  this  girl, 
so  hard  to  describe,  with  her  sub-beauty,  sub-genius, 
half-definitions  in  every  way,  she  perceived  the  germ 
of  that  capacity  for  the  greater  love  (which  means  the 
greater  power  to  suffer)  which  was  Olivia's  own  gift 
of  God  that  had  left  her  life  so  poor  outwardly  and 
kept  it  so  rich  within.  She  studied  the  girl's  face  with 
increasing  fear  and  tenderness.  —  Thin,  thin,  and 
oh,  so  sweet  1  But  why  so  thin  ?  —  Fatherless,  sensi- 
tive, high-minded,  unpractical,  and  poor — dependent 
on  a  young  brother  just  married.  To  what  fatal  com- 
promise might  she  have  lent  herself,  in  this  long, 
drifting  summer  of  suspense?  Caroline  had  said  there 
had  been  trouble  —  the  child  had  been  unable  to  make 
up  her  mind ;  she  herself  had  wished  it  very  much 
and  almost  given  up  hoping  it  could  ever  be.  Olivia 
knew  these  mothers.  They  were  practical  enough ! 
She  was  scarcely  able  to  bear  her  thoughts  without 
speaking ;  but  in  that  house  they  did  not  speak,  un- 
less invited,  on  subjects  as  delicate  as  this. 

345 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Cornish  had  met  his  travelers  at  Albany  for  a  few 
moments  as  they  changed  to  the  Boston  and  Albany ; 
that  was  all  the  time  he  could  spare  just  then  to  his 
private  affairs.  He  was  expected  at  Chelmsford  on 
the  following  Saturday. 

The  Baxter  house  had  once  stood  half  a  mile  from 
the  edge  of  the  village,  with  large  grounds  around 
it  and  a  high  brick  wall  sheltering  its  garden  and 
hiding  from  passers  the  beauty  within,  in  the  old,  ex- 
clusive English  manner.  The  grounds  were  less  by 
many  acres,  though  still  large  for  a  house  that  was 
now  within  the  city  limits.  There  was  a  new  boule- 
vard in  front,  car-lines  east,  west,  and  south,  and  a 
German  grocery  on  a  neighboring  corner.  Corner 
groceries  are  convenient,  but  Olivia  held  to  the  prac- 
tice of  sticking  by  her  old  tradespeople,  however  far 
downtown  they  kept  themselves.  Other  habits  she 
stuck  by,  too,  including  six  o'clock  dinner  on  Satur- 
day nights;— old  servants  were  considered  as  well 
as  old  tradesfolk.  But  a  guest  arriving  by  the  new 
dinner-train  would  be  late. 

Engracia  herself  was  a  trifle  late.  She  had  yielded 
to  the  desire  to  be  pretty,  and  repented  —  of  being 
too  pretty  —  after  a  glance  in  her  mirror.  Mamma 
and  Cousin  Olivia  would  be  in  high  dresses.  She 
feebly  compromised,  and  came  down,  appealing  with 
downcast  eyes  from  her  mother's  look  of  disappoint- 
ment. Who  loves  to  see  her  child  pretty  —  even  too 
pretty  —  as  well  as  one  of  these  human  mothers  !  But 
so  far  as  Cornish  was  concerned,  Engracia,  no  doubt, 
had  the  nicer  instinct. 

346 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Uncle  Benjamin,  at  whose  left  she  sat,  saw  and 
approved  of  all.  He  placed  his  dry,  thin  hand  upon 
hers,  giving  her  an  old  man's  smile  full  of  memories. 
There  came  a  sound  of  rapid  wheels  outside  —  the 
hall  door  shut  upon  the  quiet  entrance  of  the  guest. 
A  soft  color  flooded  her  cheek,  then  died  out,  leaving 
her  snow-pale. 

"Go  out,  dear,"  said  Uncle  Benjamin.  "We  will 
excuse  you." 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her,  he  turned  to  Caro- 
line ;  he  very  seldom  made  personal  remarks. 

"Can  that  child  be  as  lovely  as  she  looks?" 

Caroline  was  speechless  ;  her  breast  swelled,  her 
throat  strained  with  emotion.  Olivia  had  seen  the 
little  desperate  smile,  the  sudden  blanching  of  that 
young,  startled  face :  she  misunderstood  both  the 
daughter's  and  the  mother's  agitation.  ..."  What 
a  moment,  if  she  does  not  love  him ! " 

Brief,  low  tones  were  heard  at  intervals  in  the  hall, 
then  silence.  The  maid  had  gone  up  with  his  bags  to 
light  lamps  in  the  guest-chamber. 

"  A  nice  voice,"  sighed  Olivia ;  "  a  nice  step."  He 
mounted  the  stairs  —  not  doubtfully,  not  too  free  ;  — 
just  as  a  man  ought  to  go,  a  new  guest  in  the  house 
from  which  he  is  soon  to  take  his  bride. 

Waves  of  memories  crushed  through  her  heart. 
She  heard  the  footsteps  of  all  the  feet  on  those  stairs 
of  welcome  and  farewell,  and  along  that  gallery  where 
the  strange  step  went  —  past  the  chambers,  hushed, 
immaculate,  of  her  own  long  lifetime  of  guests :  — 
the  girls  of  her  own  youth,  deep  dreamers  after 

347 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

nights  of  dancing ;  the  children  who  slept  so  sound 
on  snowy  Christmas-eves  ;  watchers  with  the  sick  — 
silence  of  the  chambers  where  they  do  not  waken ; 
pale  brides,  and  young  mothers,  and  new  babies  — 
carried  up  the  attic  stairs  a  few  steps  before  they 
were  carried  down  to  insure  that  they  would  rise  in 
life ;  and  here,  bringing  a  lover,  was  the  last  of  those 
babies  now ! 

Engracia  entered,  and  no  one  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment ;  then  all  looked  at  once,  and  there  could  be 
no  more  doubt.  The  light  of  joy  seemed  to  play 
about  her  loveliness  and  fan  her  like  invisible  Psyche 
wings  and  hedge  her  in  like  the  spirit-flames  that 
guarded  the  sleeping  Brunnhilda. 

In  the  guest-room  lamps  were  shaded  and  one  of 
autumn's  low  fires  cast  a  mild  gleam  on  the  hearth. 
Cornish  stood  before  it  with  head  bent,  motionless, 
his  hands  behind  his  back.  It  was  hardly  the  attitude 
of  prayer,  nor  was  he  a  believer  in  many  of  the  mys- 
teries we  pray  to,  but  to  whatever  he  did  believe  in, 
he  prayed  then  in  silence,  till  calmness  came  to  him 
and  self-command  to  go  down  and  see  her  face  again 
before  them  all ;  —  he  was  as  shy  of  his  own  emotion 
as  any  man  is  who  has  conquered  that  side  of  him- 
self with  iron  mastery  for  years. 

He  knew  there  is  nothing  in  life  but  the  meanings 
we  put  into  it,  and  he  prayed  for  a  long  life  of 
blessed  meanings  with  this  exquisite  woman  he  had 
won  ;  —  so  fearful  in  her  innocence,  so  keen  as  death 
in  her  discernment.  It  would  be  the  death  of  love  — 
such  love  as  he  desired  of  her  —  that  moment  she 

348 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

recognized  the  first  spot  on  his  soul.  He  prayed  they 
might  keep  holy  all  their  days  that  gift  of  God,  —  the 
love  born  of  her  soul  in  its  short  knowledge  of  his. 
Two  years  and  a  little  over  —  it  had  seemed  another 
life ;  but  now  comes  life  itself.  Heaven,  if  it  could 
but  last ! 

The  wedding  took  place  in  October,  and  none  of 
the  solemn  fuss  of  the  beautiful  old  ceremony  was 
lacking  in  honor  of  the  new  pair.  Who  should  know 
about  home-weddings  if  not  the  Baxters  ?  They  were 
a  family  of  feast-givers :  their  annals  were  thick- 
starred  with  memorial  days  —  birthdays  of  young 
and  old,  wedding-days  and  christenings  flower- 
crowned  ;  and  other  days  when  the  flowers  were  white 
and  pale  faces  assembled  in  farewell  to  the  dead ; 
others  again  when  flags  were  mingled  with  the  flow- 
ers and  they  dressed  the  graves  of  the  sons  they  had 
given  to  the  nation.  They  were  so  numerous  still 
that  such  gatherings  as  the  present  seldom  included 
more  than  the  family  and  intimate  friends,  and  they 
were  so  generally  blest  as  to  means  that  they  made 
a  goodly  appearance  in  their  gala-gowns  and  frock- 
coats.  The  smart  young  cousins  were  particularly 
smart  in  the  new  fall  styles,  which  were  very  charm- 
ing that  year ;  the  elders  were  fewer  and  older,  but 
the  old  lace  and  best  satins  came  forth  as  fresh 
and  symbolic  as  ever.  No  curious,  only  loving,  eyes 
watched  the  bride  as  she  "  paced  into  the  hall,"  and 
if  there  were  tears  they  were  tears  of  happiness  too 
keen  for  hearts  to  bear  that  had  their  own  old  store 
of  griefs  and  memories. 

349 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

Uncle  Benjamin  had  just  passed  his  eighty-ninth 
birthday,  a  perilous  age,  and  a  dangerous  season  of 
the  year  for  old  gentlemen  who  think  of  no  one  so 
little  as  themselves.  Doors  were  open,  the  house 
was  full  of  drafts.  His  silver  head  shone  tall  on  the 
front  steps  at  the  going  away  of  the  bridal  pair  — 
uncovered,  alas !  in  the  strong  west  wind,  that 
" drove  the  dead  leaves  slanting  from  the  tree"  ;  — 
swept  them  across  the  bride's  pathway  as  she  came 
down  the  walk  on  her  husband's  arm,  between  the 
ranks  of  relatives.  She  turned  for  one  more  look  at 
them  all,  and  something  told  her  that  one  dear  and 
honored  head  would  be  missing  when  that  group 
assembled  again  —  she  ran  back  and  kissed  him,  last 
of  all. 

In  a  little  more  than  a  week,  she  was  reading  with 
tears  on  her  cheeks  that  he  had  gone  to  join  that 
other  so  numerous  group  in  the  family  plot.  The 
leaves  were  off  the  trees  that  stood  bare  in  a  still, 
soft  rain  above  the  group  of  mourners  at  his  grave. 

"Ah,  I  'm  so  glad  you  saw  him  ! "  she  sighed,  lift- 
ing her  face  to  be  kissed,  "  and  so  glad  he  saw  you. 
He  knew  why  we  were  happy.  He  was  happy  —  al- 
ways, I  think.  Oh,  the  beautiful  old  home  it  was  ! 
Could  we  ever,  if  we  lived  long  enough,  make  a 
home  like  that?" 

"  Different,  but  just  as  good,  I  hope." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THERE  had  been  much  brave  talk  about  homes, 
when  Tom  and  Mary  were  to  be  married,  and  be- 
fore they  went  away :  how,  soon,  very  soon,  when 
the  new  house  was  built, — up  that  little  Korean  val- 
ley that  Tom  remembered  with  a  keen,  delicious 
pang,  place  of  the  house  of  his  dream,  —  mother 
would  come  then  and  make  her  home  with  them. 
She  would  be  fascinated  with  the  strangeness  of  the 
country,  she  would  adopt  all  Mary's  native  mothers 
and  their  little  brown  babies  with  fat  tummies  and  no 
clothes  to  speak  of ;  she  would  ride  in  sedan-chairs 
and  learn  not  to  think  of  the  bearers.  There  would  be 
visits  to  Seoul  to  know  the  dear  Bruces,  winters  in 
Japan  where  it  is  cold  but  not  so  cold ;  or,  when  Wiju 
was  flourishing,  they  might  take  the  grand  tour  all 
together,  —  the  journey  Tom  had  waited  for,  and 
mother  might  see  something  of  the  big  world  at  last. 
Mother  heard  and  smiled  as  a  mother  should,  but 
that  this  plan  of  true  young  hearts,  unforgetful  of 
the  ties  that  bind,  would  ever  bind  her,  as  inmate  of 
a  home  complete  without  her,  she  wisely  doubted. 

On  the  train  again,  going  East,  it  was  Engracia 
who  took  up  the  tale  and  developed  her  dream,  show- 
ing how  beautifully  it  would  work  out  for  mother  to 
live  with  "  them  ";  she  read  sentences  from  Cornish's 
letters,  perfectly  worded  to  say  all  a  man  says  for  the 

35i 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

sake  of  the  girl  he  loves,  as  to  her  mother  making  one 
of  his  household  permanently.  Engracia  sat  up  close 
and  enlarged  in  flowing  fashion,  and  the  child  meant 
all  she  said.  Mamma  would  renew  her  youth  amidst 
music  and  art  and  talk  of  new  books  with  old  friends: 

—  had  n't  she  always  said  no  one  was  clever  any 
more  as  "they"  were  —  the  friends  of  her  young 
days  ?  Now,  as  many  as  were  left,  she  would  see 
them  all ;  and  wear  her  best  gowns  every  day  and 
have  new  ones,  "  bester  still ":  —  "  You  know,  mamma, 
you  always  did  love  clothes.  Now  you'll  be  where 
they  grow,  and  instead  of  thinking  about  my  clothes 
you   can  think  about  your  own."    And   Engracia 
would  sit  up  closer  and  call  her  mother  little  names 

—  for  she  knew,  as  a  daughter  knows,  that  these 
things  would  never  be.  The  shadow  of  a  long  part- 
ing was  over  them. 

To  Caroline  it  sounded  very  sweet,  and  to  half  of 
her,  perhaps,  it  may  have  sounded  true,  but  with  much 
the  wiser  half  she  put  this  dream  also  from  her.  Who 
gives  a  daughter  in  marriage  cannot  afford  to  keep 
back  anything  for  herself,  or  she  may  lose  all  —  even 
that  which  she  had. 

And  it  cost  her  no  great  pang  in  one  way,  for  she 
wanted  silence  and  peace;  and  if  there  should  be 
problems  in  these  young  lives  they  were  not  her 
problems ;  —  and  she  could  not  at  her  time  of  life 
bring  to  a  new  set  of  problems  the  courage  she  had 
brought  to  her  own.  Nor  does  the  understanding  of 
one  generation  fit  the  needs  of  the  next.  No ;  she 
wanted  to  lie  at  anchor  in  some  quiet  haven  and 

352 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

dream  her  own  dreams  and  think  over  her  life  — 
with  him.  And  more  than  art  or  clothes  or  clever 
talk,  though  she  had  loved  these  things  in  her  youth, 
did  she  love  her  personal  life  apart,  the  solitude  she 
had  grown  used  to  and  learned  to  need ;  —  room  for 
the  lonely  soul  which  each  of  us  must  bring  to  our 
last  account  with  life,  in  preparation  for  what  we  trust 
will  come  after. 

It  was  to  the  home  she  knew  first,  the  shelter  of 
her  orphaned  youth,  that  she  owed  at  last  this  final 
gift  —  with  a  beloved  soul  beside  her  that  needed 
nothing  for  her  last  change  to  God. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  after  the  wedding,  she 
went  up  to  say  good-night  to  Uncle  Benjamin.  He 
had  been  a  little  ailing  —  there  was  as  yet  no  alarm. 
After  his  tray-supper,  he  sat  reading  by  his  fire.  His 
bedroom  was  the  large  corner  room  with  the  state- 
liest mahogany  furniture  and  a  four-poster  in  full 
panoply  in  its  shadowy  alcove. 

"  Caroline,"  he  said,  keeping  her  hand,  "  sit  down 
a  moment  more.  .  .  .  When  the  time  comes  for  me  to 
leave  Olivia  here  alone,  would  you  be  willing  to  make 
your  home  with  her?"  Uncle  Benjamin  said  things 
simply  and  plainly. 

"  Uncle,  I  think  Olivia  must  choose  her  own  house- 
mates, but  if  she  should  wish  it,  nothing  could  be 
sweeter  or  more  restful  to  me." 

"  That  is  all  I  wanted.  I  have  never  spoken  to 
Olivia ;  but  if  she  should  wish  it,  will  you  remember, 
dear,  I  wished  it  too?" 

"  Ah,  don't  say  '  wished.'  " 
353 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"It  is  immaterial,"  he  answered  gently.  "The 
tenses  draw  close  together." 

It  took  but  a  few  words,  —  on  the  evening  after 
the  funeral,  hardly  a  week  later, — to  settle  what  Caro- 
line should  do  with  the  remnant  of  her  life.  Friend- 
ship is  the  last  of  our  passions  on  earth,  or  should  be : 
unhappy  are  those  who  maintain  the  high  emotional 
temperatures  to  the  end. 

"You  will  not  leave  me  now,  Caroline?  I  see  no 
reason  why  we  should  ever  part  again  —  if  you  are 
content  to  stay  here  and  fold  your  wings.  You  must 
be  very  tired." 

"  My  wings  are  broken,  if  I  ever  had  any,"  said 
Caroline,  speaking  with  difficulty.  "  I  shall  be  con- 
tent as  long  as  you  are  satisfied  to  have  me.  But  I 
am  not  very  good  company." 

"  Nor  I,"  Olivia  answered.  "  We  are  both  used  to 
our  own  poor  company  —  that  is  something." 

Four  days  later,  Caroline  said :  "  It  is  very  soon  for 
me  to  bring  my  friends  in  upon  you,  but  I  have  had 
a  telegram  from  a  very  dear  friend  who  passes  us  on 
Thursday  :  she  asks  if  she  may  call  ?  It  is  Anna  Lud- 
well ;  —  you  know  who  she  is  ?  She  understands  how 
it  is  with  us  —  you  would  not  have  to  see  her." 

"  I  should  love  to  see  her !  I  know,  of  course,  who 
she  is.  We  have  a  number  of  mutual  friends,  though 
I  never  happen  to  have  met  her." 

"  She  is  a  very  charming  woman." 

"  I  know  that,  too  :  ask  her  to  dinner  and  for  over- 
night." 

"  That  would  hardly  be  possible  for  her,  I  think. 
354 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

She  only  stops  over  one  train.  I  wish  she  had  her 
daughter  with  her.  Clare  is  one  of  the  prettiest  girls 
you  have  ever  seen,  —  a  perfect  flower  of  the  West 
Coast :  they  have  them  there  as  sumptuous  and  deli- 
cate as  hothouse  roses,  but  they  grow  them  in  the 
open." 

On  Thursday  afternoon,  Olivia  said,  while  they 
were  waiting  for  their  guest,  "  You  two  Californians 
will  have  a  great  deal  to  talk  over :  you  must  let  me 
slip  out  after  a  while  and  leave  you  to  yourselves." 

Caroline  laughed  a  little  :  "  Well,  I  don't  know  that 
Anna  Ludwell  is  a  Californian  any  more  than  she  is 
some  other  things.  She  is  remarkably  like  you,  in  one 
thing:  she  is  one  type  of  the  '  vanishing  lady.'  " 

Anna  arrived,  as  usual  very  perfect  in  dress  and 
very  sweet  and  simple  in  manner — with  her  light, 
cool  kiss  on  Caroline's  cheek,  her  sensitive  meeting 
of  the  eyes.  Nothing  in  the  least  was  lost  upon  her 
as  to  the  beautiful  old  room  they  sat  in,  or  that  other 
type  of  the  vanishing  lady  pouring  tea  at  her  great- 
grandmother's  tea-table  out  of  the  Georgian  silver 
into  white-and-gold  cups  of  the  Empire.  It  was  not 
the  table  or  the  silver  or  the  room  ;  —  it  was  the  soul 
of  the  house  that  she  felt,  born  of  four  generations  of 
gentle  memories — hearts  that  asked  but  a  few  things, 
not  for  themselves  alone,  and  were  faithful  to  those 
few. 

Olivia  went  away  and  the  two  sat  closer  and  looked 
deeper  and  less  shyly  into  each  other's  eyes.  It  seemed 
to  Caroline  as  if  some  slight,  intangible  veil  or  barrier 
were  gone.  They  met  more  nearly  on  a  common  and 

355 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

personal  plane.  This  need  not  be  explained,  although 
it  affected  Caroline  with  a  mild  spiritual  amazement 
to  realize  that  at  last,  now  that  all  she  had  lived  for 
was  ended,  and  she  was  no  more  than  an  empty  seed- 
pod  sunning  itself  in  a  withered  garden  in  the  latter 
days  of  November  —  because  it  was  a  beautiful, 
stately,  sheltered  garden  and  not  the  open,  sun-dried 
plain  —  Anna  no  longer  pitied  her  —  did  not  shrink 
from  contemplating  her  circumstances.  No,  it  was 
not  worldliness;  it  was  a  feeling  for  backgrounds. 
Our  backgrounds  that  we  are  so  unconscious  of  — 
how  they  matter  to  our  friends,  especially  those  who 
have  had  a  free  choice  of  backgrounds  for  themselves ! 
But  the  slight  pause  of  wonder  passed  quickly  in 
mutual  questions  about  the  children. 

"Tell  me  about  Clare!  —  if  there  is  anything  to 
tell,  except  that  she  is  prettier  than  ever  and  just  as 
joyous  and  natural." 

"Clare  is  not  joyous,"  Anna  said,  musing,  with 
averted  eyes  ;  "  and  she  is  not  as  natural  as  she  used 
to  be.  We  cannot  always  fathom  our  child  in  these 
days  :  I  think  she  has  suffered." 

"I  have  seen  her  suffer,"  said  Caroline.  "And 
there  was  one  other  who  suffered.  I  shall  never  for- 
get his  face  as  he  lay  there  in  that  chance  bedroom 
—  beaten,  ashamed,  his  happiness  gone ;  but  no  ex- 
cuses, no  levity,  no  sullenness,  no  defiance,  no  com- 
plaints. All  that  was  literally  true  of  him,  though  I 
did  not  think  of  it  at  the  time." 

"  Oh,  Dalby  was  always  a  '  good  losing  sport/  " 
said  Anna  impatiently. 

356 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  Ah,  no ;  it  was  more  than  that  —  or  why  should 
that  impression  of  him  haunt  me  ?  I  cannot  stop  think- 
ing of  him,  though  he  has  gone  so  completely  out  of 
my  life." 

"  He  haunts  us,"  said  Anna.  "  Unfortunately  he 
has  not  gone  out  of  our  lives  —  we  cannot  get  him 
out." 

"That  means,  I  suppose,  that  Clare  has  not  for- 
gotten?" 

"  She  is  silent,  but  she  has  not  forgotten  ;  at  least, 
she  refuses  to  think  of  any  one  else.  Tom  has  given 
them  two  years,  to  test  their  attachment  to  each 
other." 

"  Do  you  think,  at  their  age,  young  love  requires 
that  sort  of  handling  ?  There  might  not  be  much  left 
to  test  after  two  years,  and  yet  a  beautiful  thing  have 
perished." 

"  It  was  not  beautiful  at  first  —  you  know  that.  If 
it  is  real,  it  can  bear  chastening,  even  chastising." 

"But  not  long,  slow  crushing!  .  .  .  Have  you 
anything  against  him  now,  or  is  it  the  past  that  can- 
not be  forgiven  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  forgive,  but  what  is  he  ?  Clare  is  all  we 
have  in  the  world  :  she  is  a  representative  child." 

"  But  she  is  herself,  too,  and  a  very  real  self.  Is  it 
that  you  compare  him  with  others  ?  " 

"  Certainly  we  do.  Clare  might  be  the  wife,  to- 
morrow, of  a  man  whose  life  would  be  well  worth  liv- 
ing—  mistress  of  large  opportunities,  and  incidentally 
of  one  or  two  of  the  old,  great  mansions  of  England." 

("  Backgrounds  again,"  thought  Caroline.) 
357 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

"  But  if  she  does  n't  love  this  personage  and  does 
love  the  poor  boy  she  humbled  so?" 

"  If  it 's  that,  of  course  there  is  nothing  to  be  done ; 
but  we  must  find  if  it  is  that." 

"  You  speak  like  a  good  American  mother.  So,  if 
at  the  end  of  two  years,  we  hear  that  they  are  en- 
gaged?" 

"  You  may  assume  it  is  that,  and  we  have  stepped 
aside." 

"  I  think  you  are  so  wise." 

"  To  wait,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  —  To  step  aside." 

"  That  is  very  well  for  you  to  say  :  both  your 
children  married  to  suit  your  wishes." 

Caroline  smiled  :  "Not  entirely.  Don't  you  sup- 
pose I  had  my  dreams  for  my  '  representative '  boy  ? 
But  I  can  say  already,  it  is  better  as  it  is.  I  think, 
before  those  two  years  are  up,  you  will  be  saying 
the  same  yourself." 

Whereupon  the  hostess  entered,  and  soon  after 
Anna  rose  to  take  leave. 

"May  I  always  come  when  we  are  going  back  and 
forth  ?  " 

"  They  take  us  on  the  way  to  something  better," 
Caroline  explained,  smiling. 

"Not  better,"  her  friend  corrected,  "only  bigger 
and  more  various." 

"  Well,  the  love  of  variousness  passes  —  and  the 
East  is  big  enough  for  remnants  of  families.  It  is 
very  comfortable  for  old  ladies." 

"It's  quite  the  right  place  for  her — "  Anna  ad- 
358 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

dressed  her  hostess,  holding  Caroline's  hand  :  "  she 
never  was  at  heart  a  pioneer.  Adventures  were 
thrust  upon  her  —  the  most  conservative  woman  that 
ever  lived." 

"  I  don't  know  what  adventures  you  mean !  Do 
you  call  it  adventurous,  living  fifteen  years  at  Road- 
side?" 

"  A  desperate  adventure ! "  Anna  confessed  her 
true  sentiments  at  last. 

The  two  women  laughed  like  girls  —  they  hardly 
knew  why  —  and  embraced  till  next  time.  Naturally 
they  were  more  at  ease  together,  for  pride  on  one 
side  was  gone,  the  vigilant  pride  of  a  wife  in  defense 
of  the  life  her  husband  is  able  to  give  her ;  and  on  the 
other,  careful  hesitations  of  all  kinds  not  to  wound 
that  pride  or  suggest  comparisons. 

Olivia  and  Caroline  lived  on  in  the  peace  of  an  un- 
exacting  companionship,  which  at  times  held  no  more 
speech  than  if  they  had  been  two  men  ;  again  they 
had  long,  satisfying  orgies  of  talk ;  they  never  knew 
when  to  go  to  bed,  and  each  felt  a  guilty  relief  if  the 
other  went  first  and  left  her  alone  with  a  book  for  a 
last  luxurious  hour  before  locking  up  and  putting  out 
the  lights. 

Caroline  had  found  a  quite  unlooked-for  pleasure 
in  Mrs.  Gladwyn's  letters,  supplementing  Mary's 
cheerful,  safe,  matter-of-fact  reports  on  domestic  af- 
fairs— Tom,  of  course,  never  wrote.  Mrs.  Gladwyn, 
under  Providence,  was  tenderly  grateful  to  Tom  who 
had  brought  her  child  back  to  her  and  lodged  her 
safe  under  a  good  man's  roof ;  correspondingly  she 

359 


THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

was  grieved  to  think  of  Mrs.  Scarth  who  had  lost  her 
son.  Her  letters  told  exactly  the  little  things  Mary 
was  still  too  self-conscious  with  Tom's  mother  to 
write.  Mrs.  Gladwyn  had  the  courage  of  middle-age 
and  of  her  own  period  of  expansive  letter- writers;  she 
had  no  shyness  about  singing  Tom's  praises  to  his 
mother  across  the  seas.  The  correspondence  became 
a  great  bond  between  two  women  who  might  never 
see  each  other,  but  whose  lives  were  interlocked  for- 
ever through  their  children.  Incidentally,  it  gave 
Caroline  a  truer  knowledge  of  the  woman  her  son 
had  chosen. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


' 


461725 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


